


Shadows on the Wall

by cottonballz_of_death



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Angst, Bondage, Domesticity, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Irene/Sally boinking, Frottage, Johnlock - Freeform, Knifeplay, M/M, Magical Realism, Mild Gore, Minor Irina (Irene) Adler, Minor Sally Donovan, Romance, Slow Burn, Spanking, TW: Suicide, Voyeurism, WIP, mild dubcon ish, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cottonballz_of_death/pseuds/cottonballz_of_death
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In need of cheap lodgings as he completes his medical training, young John Watson takes on a flatshare with Sherlock Holmes. The last thing either of them wants is a relationship, so no-strings-attached sex should be a simple proposition—but, as John soon discovers, nothing is simple when it involves Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. READ THIS

Mycroft 2004

He’s sleeping in the old flat tonight, the one he hasn’t seen the inside of since his brother’s first overdose. He supposes that it’s fitting that he return here after Sherlock’s first arrest. He sighs. If his brother’s relationship with law enforcement holds any resemblance to his relationship with heroin, this is unlikely to be the last time Mycroft will have to rescue him from NSY’s clutches. On the bright side, the latest stint in rehab seems to have done the trick. He just wishes Sherlock could have traded his addiction for something less dangerous than chasing down murderers.

Today had been difficult. There had been too many people, too much noise, too much of everything. And then he’d seen _his_ name on the arrest report. Arresting officer: Gregory Lestrade. Of course it had to be Greg. _He’d_ been professional, not allowing a hint of their history to show on his face. For Mycroft, it had felt like being stabbed in the heart with a thousand tiny daggers. He couldn’t help but notice the new wedding band on Greg’s finger, the way his gaze unconsciously strayed to his mobile, the new crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Greg was in love, but not with him.

He feels the ghost of a headache gathering in his temples as he hangs his coat on the rack and puts his umbrella in the stand. He pours himself a glass of scotch and downs it with unseemly haste for such a refined vintage. He chases the alcohol with two painkillers and pours himself another drink.

He takes a leisurely stroll about the flat, trailing his fingers along the bookshelves in the parlor, utterly unchanged from his memory of them more than six years ago.

Suddenly, his fingers meet an irregularity. Somehow a title with a spine made of cheap, mass-produced cardboard has found its way into this sanctum of leather-bound volumes.

Mycroft pulls it off the shelf. The cover immediately separates from the contents and a sheaf of papers breaks loose, scattering across the floor. _Delightful_ he thinks to himself, _because I haven’t already cleaned up enough messes today._

He paws through the pages, trying to restore them to some kind of order. He skims the text and begins to organize them by date. Finally, he comes to what he realizes must be the cover page. He freezes. With infinitely more care, Mycroft tucks the pages back into their cardboard cover and carries them into the kitchen before pouring what’s left of his scotch down the sink and settling down for a long read.

 

 

 

 

READ THIS

 

 

 

 

**Attn: M. Holmes, Aid to W. Smith, Esq.  
Date: 27, Dec. 1997**

**Re: The Brook Threat**

**Please find below materials gathered from the following sources:**

The journals of John H. Watson  
The journal of Sherlock Holmes  
The logbook of Mycroft Holmes

Assorted call records, logs, letters, etc. from various sources. (see index on page 148 for detailed references)

Yours,

I. Adler

 

 

 

 

22, December 1997

Mycroft,

I have no idea if this will ever make its way into your hands, but if it does, it is vital that you read every word of this document. Richard Brook is dangerous. He is in the process of amassing a criminal empire and he has a personal grudge against Sherlock Holmes. He’s infiltrated your people. Trust no one.

Regards,

A friend

 

 

 

 

From the journal of John H. Watson

**9, January 1997**

Hello again, dear reader. I apologize for not writing. It appears that all of my journals disappeared during the move, which is a bit upsetting for reasons you would know if you were to read my last journal. But you can’t because it’s gone…argh. Anyway, on with the new journal!

It has been a week since I moved in and I still have yet to meet my flatmate. As you would have known if I hadn’t lost my previous journal, I’ve had to move into a tiny bedsit so that Harry can start Uni while I finish my training. She’s been putting it off for two years, so it’s only fair, but I’m still nervous about living with a stranger in such tight quarters.

This morning I was chatting with the man who owns the newspaper stall down the street. He asked where I lived. I pointed at my building, a dreary brown brick rectangle in a slightly worse state of repair than the buildings on either side. He leaned a fraction away from me and crossed himself. “A good lad like you should know better than to live in a place like that. The Devil lives there, you know. I see him coming and going on the regular. Dreadful man.” He turned to the shelf where he was putting out the latest issue of The Sun, still muttering to himself.

I thanked him and went on my way. It was bad enough that I was going to have to live the next year in a run-down dump. The last thing I needed was to add paranoid religious fantasies to my nightmare fodder.

**Later**

I must confess, after spending some time in my new flat, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if someone mistook it for Hell. The walls had been painted white at some point in the distant past, but have now faded to a dismal yellowish color that is vaguely reminiscent of urine, which is appropriate, given the smell. 

The entire living space is one room, with only a narrow strip of linoleum to differentiate the kitchen from the main area. There is one window, which looks out onto the uninspiring sight of the black-streaked brick of a neighboring building. Next to the window and tucked into opposite corners on the far side of the room from the kitchen are two twin beds, mine and that of the bloke with whom I’ll be sharing the flat.

The rest of the place is dominated by a very large folding banquet table that is covered in chemistry equipment in various states of cleanliness, and, I was surprised to see, a microscope that must have cost more than £2,000. 

I won’t bother to describe the loo, other than to say that it barely has space for a toilet and a stand-up shower, and that when the door is shut, the claustrophobic space is pervaded by a strong mildew odor that makes my eyes water and my nose itch.

The only thing I know about my flatmate so far is that he is a graduate chemistry student and that his job requires him to keep odd hours. I have also discovered that he is very messy. The room was a disaster when I moved in, with dishes piled practically to the ceiling and old take-out cartons mouldering away on every flat surface. Weirdly enough, his bed is made and his half of the closet is tidy so perhaps he just had to leave in a hurry or something.

**Later**

I just saw my flatmate for the first time this afternoon. He stumbled in through the door without so much as a glance at me. I barely managed to get a vague impression of a pale face topped by wild black hair before he tumbled into bed. Judging from the slight rise and fall of his blankets, he’s not dead.

**10, January 1997**  
Is it a bad sign if you want to stab your flatmate after living together for less than one day? He finally decided to wake up. At three o’clock in the morning!!! I’d forgotten he was there and was scared half out of my skin when he began crashing about. I jumped out of bed, yelling a string of obscenities and was halfway to tackling him before I remembered, not that he even noticed. After that, I tried to go to sleep, but he was pottering about the kitchen and my adrenaline was still pumping, so I gave up and started writing in my journal.

I have to say that he’s one of the oddest-looking fellows I’ve ever seen. His body is very long and fine-boned, and his manner of carrying himself is refined in a way that speaks of old money and a public school education. I can’t imagine what on Earth a man like that is doing here. In any case, his aristocratic air is belied by a shock of messy dark brown curls that stick out from his head in all directions. His hair isn’t very long. It barely brushes his shoulders, but what it lacks in length it makes up for in wildness. 

His skin is very fair, the kind that probably burns if he so much as breathes on a sunbeam, and he has a weird face. It’s all long and oddly proportioned with prominent cheekbones and ~~creepy pale eyes~~. Sorry, he was just looking at me as I wrote that. I have to confess, for a skinny bloke, he does have quite a nice

**Later**

Sherlock—that’s his name--is not as bad as I thought, though I’m still fighting the urge to smack him. I was sitting there describing him in my journal when he turned around and asked, “Why are you staring at me?”

I felt like an arsehole. It’s just bad form to gossip and judge people behind their backs, even if it is to an imaginary reader. I looked up and tried to give him an apologetic smile, “Sorry, I was just describing you in my journal.”

“Oh, and what are you writing about me?”

“Just a description of what you look like. For posterity, you know.”

“Can I see?”

I handed him the journal. He picked it up and began reading. He pointed to the last line I’d written.

“How were you going to finish that sentence?”

He pointed at the part that said, ‘he does have quite a nice—‘

I turned red and braced myself. I’d been caught out. Still, I didn’t see any reason to lie about it.

“Bum. I was going to write that you ‘have quite a nice bum.’” I replied, wincing internally.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and grinned, looking like a cat who’d gotten into the cream. “Really? Well. That’s good to know.” He got up and stood in front of the mirror in the loo and proceeded to check out his arse from different angles. 

Relief that I would not have to hide my sexuality or look for a new living situation so soon swept through me. “So you don’t mind?” I asked.

“Mind what?”

He was going to make me say it. “That I look at blokes’ bums.”

“No. Why would I mind?” He tugged at his trouser legs so that the fabric was taut against his arse and craned his head around to see the effect. Slow understanding dawned on his face. He released his trousers and gave me a long look. “I should warn you—I mean—you do have a pleasant physique and adequately symmetrical features, but I’m not interested in engaging in physical relations with anyone new at the moment.”

I wanted to roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t trying to get into your pants, I was just trying to make sure you weren’t going to try to kick my arse later.”

“Oh, okay, good then. It’s nothing personal, you know.” 

I sat where I was, staring at my journal and trying very hard not to be stung by his rejection of something that I hadn’t even offered, when green bubbles suddenly erupted from one of the beakers in the kitchen and the stench of burning hair filled the room. Without another word, Sherlock leaped for the misbehaving glassware.

As I’ve been writing this, the crisis in the kitchen has been resolved, and although there is a lingering smell, nothing appears to be in danger of catching on fire or spontaneously combusting. Sherlock is now putting on his coat. I’m hoping this means he’s on his way out so I can finally get some sleep.


	2. Fungus and Melancholy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exposition! Fungal infections! Sherlock in his boxers! "Science!" Boyfriends! Sad moping!--but not necessarily in that order :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief and very vague mention of child death. Skip down to entry 17 January 1997 if you wish to avoid it.

Sherlock’s Journal

**10.01.97**

Used formula from 648.32.1 (see entry 02.05.94), but this time added 15 ml phosphozithramine. Result: exothermic reaction resulting in the complete immolation of the sample.

The search for the perfect ginger hair dye continues.

The new test subject arrived. He is short. Height is 5'7''. Physique is fit. Hair and eyes are fair. He is a medical student so one must assume a reasonable level of intelligence.

He has displayed evidence of physical attraction toward me. I must keep this in mind as I may be able to use it at some point in the future.

Overall, the new one appears to be much more promising than the last.

John’s Journal

**11, January 1997**

Hello dear reader, 

I saw someone die today. Well, she didn’t die today, but she probably will be dead by the time you read this. Seeing people die isn’t unusual for me, and not just because I’m a doctor. If you have made the effort to find and read this journal, then you most likely know what I’m talking about without my needing to explain it.

Anyway, this death vision was worse than usual. It was a little girl. She was in the A&E because she got a 2p coin stuck up her nose. I removed it with minimal difficulty. She reached for it as soon as I pulled it out, presumably so she could stuff it right back up her nostril. As I dodged out of the way, her fingers brushed the inch of flesh that peeked between my sleeve and glove. I won’t tell you the details of what I saw when her bare skin brushed mine. All I will say is that it was terrible. 

Sorry, I shouldn’t be so glum. Mum used to tell me that I’m too affected by the horror of the things I see. She worries about me. Well, to be more specific, she worries about what I’ll do. 

I’m explaining everything in the wrong order. Let me start over. My family is cursed. For whatever reason, some members of my family are forced to live the death of every person we touch with our bare skin. This means that we see the deaths of our parents, our children—if we choose to have any, our lovers, everyone we touch. Most of humanity is only allowed to exist in the present, but whenever I touch someone, for a few minutes, I exist within two different times, one of which happens to be the moment of their death.

Mum believes that we aren’t cursed in a supernatural sense, but rather, we are victims of some cruel trick of genetics. The randomness of the curse, the way it has sometimes affected multiple people in a generation—Granddad and all of his siblings had it, but Mum was the only person in her generation to suffer it. I have the curse, but it passed over Harry altogether. Aunt Eileen, Mum’s fourth cousin also has the curse. Her parents had her institutionalized when she was a child because they thought she was mad. Nobody in Aunt Eileen’s family had endured it in so long that they had completely forgotten its existence. Granddad sprung Aunt Eileen from care and set the situation aright the second he found out about her, but I can’t help but wonder how many other lost family members might be locked up through no fault of their own. 

There is so much that is still not understood about the nature of time, and even less that is understood about the human genome. The curse is part of why I chose to study medicine. I wanted to understand why my family is the way it is, and see if there is anything that can be done about it. Unfortunately, I very quickly realized that studying genetics would require me to spend the rest of my days locked up in a lab, so that was right out. Instead, I’m specializing in trauma. It’s not the most glamorous of specialties, but I love the excitement of it.

I have no idea how many people in my extended family suffer from the curse, or how far back it goes in the family tree. Granddad has found family records of witch burnings, exorcisms, purification rituals, and bizarre sacrifices going back as far as the 1500s, but for all he knows, it could go back even further. 

Sorry for the depressing entry. I’ll try to have a merrier entry tomorrow.

Sherlock’s Journal

**11.01.97**

Subject suffered a fit of melancholy today. Judging from his familiarity with using alcohol as a coping mechanism, I would say that this is a relatively common ocurrence.

Subject is also suffering from what appears to be a fungal infection, most likely caused by contact with the shower. Will continue to observe for now.

Note to self: track the frequency, duration, and severity of the bouts of melancholy as signs of a deteriorating emotional state may provide valuable evidence for my current hypothesis.  
early this morning so I still haven’t gotten the chance to complain to him yet.

John’s Journal

**17, January 1997**

My hands are so fucking itchy!! At first I thought I just had some irritation because it’s winter and I’m washing my hands twenty times a day, but Molly took one look and told me I’ve got a fungal infection. From the filthy fucking shower, no doubt. It itches like mad. I’ve prescribed myself an anti-fungal, but until that takes care of it, it’s all I can do not to scratch myself until I bleed.

Given the day I had yesterday, you probably won’t be surprised to hear that I dreamed of my death last night. 

I knelt behind a rock in a sere desert landscape. The heat of the sun beat down upon my shoulders through thick layers of fabric. The staccato clatter of automatic weapon fire echoed from every side. I heard a cry and turned my head. A second later I felt the impact. The shot that killed me knocked me back like a blow from a sledge hammer. I felt no pain. Within moments, I no longer felt the warmth of the sun. I shivered in the fierce desert wind and looked up at the sky one last time before blackness consumed my vision. Then I woke up in bed, pouring sweat and shaking with cold.

I called my mum today. I often find myself doing so on the days that I have The Dream. It’s a relief to know that I’m not the only one who has watched myself die. 

“Hi, mum.”

“Hi, love.” Her voice was bright, as ever.

“How’s things?”

“Good, love, they’re good. I’m good. Harry just got back her midterm report and she is making excellent marks in school. They think she has a shot at an internship with one of the big banks.”

“I’m so glad. Is she fitting in okay? Does she seem to be making friends?”

“Yes and yes. How are you doing? Are you sleeping okay?”

‘Are you sleeping okay’ was mum’s code for, “Did you have the dream again?”

“I’m great. Everything’s great. I’m sleeping fine.”

‘I’m sleeping fine’ is my code for, “Yes, I had the dream and no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, John.” I could hear the sadness hidden behind her voice, along with her wish to broach a topic that we had long-ago agreed never to discuss again.

“Mum.” I warned. There were some things that I just couldn’t talk about.

“How’s the job?” I could hear the strain in her voice as she struggled to change the subject.

“Good. It’s good.”

“And the new flatmate?”

“Good. Strange but good.”

“Alright.” A long silence passed. “Well I’ll let you get back to work. Call me again soon, love.”

Sherlock’s Journal

**17.01.97**

Subject suffering from nightmares, possibly as a result of the previously mentioned melancholy, or possibly from something more sinister. I am trying very hard to suppress my hopes for the latter. I cannot allow my biases to skew the results of the experiment. The subject’s melancholy continues unabated.

**19.01.97**

Melancholy seems to have eased over the past two days. Otherwise, nothing new to report.

John’s Journal

**22, January 1997**

Holy shite! Sherlock is gay, or at the very least, bi. How do I know, you ask? His boyfriend, yes, boyfriend just walked through the door. I had just got home from work when I heard someone knocking. I got up and answered. A bloke an inch shorter than me with summer blonde hair and a stocky figure stood in the hall. He probably had about a stone on me, all of it muscle. He had a handsome face, which was made even more handsome by his warm smile.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I’m Sherlock’s boyfriend, Victor. We were supposed to meet up tonight, but he never called. You must be his new flatmate.” 

I shrugged apologetically, “Sorry, he’s out.”

His shoulders slumped. “Do you mind if I come in for a bit and wait? His job has him out and about at all hours. He probably had an emergency and forgot to cancel.”

I was a bit annoyed. I had been hoping to have an evening to myself, but I opened the door and stepped aside. 

He entered, and immediately made himself comfortable on Sherlock’s bed.

After about an hour, just as I was getting ready to kick him out, Sherlock returned. Victor’s face lit up and he launched himself across the room like an over-excited puppy whose owner just come back from vacation.

Sherlock stiffened for a moment, as though he were bracing himself, before the force of Victor’s enthusiastic greeting drove him back against the door. Victor, meanwhile, gave him a vigorous open-mouthed kiss and shoved one hand right down the front of his trousers.

For my part, I was desperately hoping that they would hurry up and move things away from the door so that I could _leave_ and not deal with awkwardness of being in the room while my flatmate got ravished by his boyfriend.

As if he could hear my silent plea, Victor let out what can only be described as a squeal and dashed for the bed. Sherlock chased after him, his own laugh low and rough. He left behind a trail of clothes as he pursued his prey. I took the opportunity to flee the room.

I’ve been sitting in a café for the past two hours with only my journal for company. I have to confess that I was more than a little surprised to find that Sherlock fancies men. He doesn’t really seem like the type to fancy anyone, much less laugh and play bedroom games. Perhaps I’m just jealous of his good fortune. Ever since James left for China, my own life has been sadly lacking in that area. Sigh, I need a good shag.

**23, January 1997**

I gave Sherlock three hours to have his fun. I had an early morning the next day and there was a limit to the amount of sleep I was willing to sacrifice to Sherlock’s sex life.

When I arrived, the only hint that Victor had ever been in the flat was a pile of sheets on the floor. I turned to the window to see Sherlock, clad only in his boxers. Half his long torso dangled out the window as he exhaled a plume of smoke. 

He turned to me as I joined him at the window.

“Can I bum one?” I asked.

Sherlock silently held out the carton. I tapped out a cigarette and used the lighter Sherlock offered. I rested one hip on the sill and took a deep drag on the cigarette.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at me, “I didn’t think that doctors were supposed to smoke.”

I shrugged, “I’m not worried about cancer.” I already knew how I was going to die. It wasn’t going to be cancer that killed me.

He nodded and we returned to companionable silence. 

I took a few minutes to revel in the ashy bitterness and the sensation of hot smoke slowly pouring into my lungs. Like magic, all of the tension from the day left my body. I took another drag and sighed in contentment. 

Finally, I asked, “So, what’s the deal with Victor?”

Sherlock took a last drag on his cigarette and lit the next before replying, “We fuck sometimes.”

I nodded and let it rest at that. Sex was complicated for me. I couldn’t fuck anybody without first seeing them die. I could see the appeal of an arrangement based purely on physical connection. I finished my cigarette and let it drop into the alley, watching as the orange glowing tip tumbled through the air before landing in a shower of sparks on the pavement below.

Sherlock’s Journal

**23.01.97**

Subject does not display any controlling or jealous tendencies, both of which can make cohabitation difficult. However, he does display a disturbing propensity toward fatalism. Given my lack of familiarity with the subject, it is impossible to determine if this is a new development.

Pasting this here so I don't forget later:

 

Sherlock,

If you insist upon residing in that vile hovel, I demand that you at least allow me to take steps to make it habitable. I know you want answers, but do you really think that living in penury is going help you find them? We will never know why we are the way we are. Sometimes you can’t know everything. You need to accept that.

Regards,

Mycroft

P.S. My people will be coming in on Thursday to deal with the mold problem. No, this is not up for discussion. 

John’s Journal

**24, January 1997**

This morning I woke up to Sherlock’s strange, almost colorless eyes boring into mine. They went blurry and danced across his face as I struggled to focus. My mouth tasted of ash, and my lungs complained about last night’s smoking.

“What do you want?” I growled. I would have swatted him, but a glance at the clock told me that I could still get in a good hour’s rest. I did not want that hour of sleep to be disturbed by death visions.

“I forgot to tell you last night. My brother is having some people come in and fumigate the bathroom on Thursday. They should fix the fungus problem.” He winked. “That will be good news for your hands.”

I winced. My fingers and palms had long red scrapes from where I’d scratched them raw. The fungus was an annoyance, but it had given me a few day’s respite from my visions. After all, I couldn’t very well touch people with my bare hands if there was a risk giving it to them as well.

I didn’t bother to ask how he knew about my infection. I just yanked the covers over my head and mumbled a thank you.


	3. Cleaning up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knife wounds! Messy breakups! A sinister Irishman! Violin playing! Homicidal fantasies! and more await you in this chapter.
> 
> Also, **Trigger warning: suicide**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags and warnings, proceed with caution.

John’s Journal

**8, February 1997**

My flatmate is either involved with organized crime or he’s an action hero. 

Last night Sherlock stumbled into the flat. He was doubled over with his arms wrapped around his middle. His face was white as a sheet. 

I dropped the book I was reading. “Are you alright?” I asked.

He shook his head. I sat him down on the edge of his bed and snapped on the pair of latex gloves I had stashed in my pocket earlier. The fungal infection had mostly tailed off, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

“Where are you hurt?”

“Abdomen.” he replied tersely.

I grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen and cut his shirt off. Once I saw that the bleeding wasn’t life-threatening, I removed his trousers and pants to make sure that he didn’t have any additional wounds.

The cut was long and shallow. I didn’t think anything major had been nicked, but it definitely needed stitches. “You need to go to emergency. I’ll get my coat.”

Sherlock grabbed at my sleeve, his movements clumsy and desperate. “I can’t go to the A&E yet. You’ll have to patch it up here.”

I crossed my arms. There was only one reason I could imagine that someone would be reluctant to go to hospital. “What did you do?” I asked in a no-nonsense voice.

Sherlock glared, “Nothing illegal, er strictly speaking. I was doing some work for my brother. Things got a little messy. I need to keep a low profile for a few days so leaving the flat is out of the question.”

I tried again. “You really should go to the A&E. You could have a perforated intestine or internal bleeding...” I trailed off.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his voice became razor sharp, “You can either help me or you can watch me stitch it up myself, but I’m not going anywhere.”

I imagined Sherlock trying to debride the wound and inwardly cringed. There was no way this wasn’t going to end in disaster. 

I got my coat off the rack, “I’ll go to the hospital and get some lidocaine. You just—“

Sherlock cut me off, “Not necessary. Look in the top shelf of the second cabinet to the left. He waved in the general direction of the kitchen. You should find everything you need.”

Sure enough, I found bottles of lidocaine and iodine, some syringes and hypodermic needles, still in their sterile packaging, a curved needle, surgical thread, a surgical scrub brush, gauze pads and medical tape.

I gave him a suspicious look, “This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, is it?”

He fixed me with a level gaze, “No, except all the other times I didn’t have you to stitch me up.”

I filled my arms with the supplies I needed and tried and failed to avoid imagining that silky dark head bowed over the wound on his belly, long fingers shaking as they gripped the scrub brush, trails of brownish yellow iodine mixed with blood, dripping down to meet with the coarser hair below. I turned my mind off. I was not going there.

“Go in the bathroom and sit on the vanity.” I ordered.

He obeyed while I stole a chair from the kitchen. I set everything down and washed my hands before donning a new set of gloves. 

Sherlock watched with detached interest as I injected lidocaine around his wound. There was something about his gaze that was a bit disconcerting.

“Don’t do that.” I bit out.

“Do what?” he asked.

“Look at yourself like you’re a specimen.”

“Oh,” he sounded a bit taken aback, “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

I scrubbed the wound and gave it a thorough rinse before I threaded the needle. Sherlock’s gaze on my hands was so intense that it could have been an almost physical force. Feeling a bit self-conscious, I poked the needle through the flap of skin and got to work. Sherlock never flinched, twitched, or gave any indication that he was repulsed by what I was doing. If anything, he found it fascinating. This was a surprise to me, since so far as I could tell he hadn’t shown much interest in anything, or if he did, it was a fleeting mania that died within the space of a few hours or minutes.

I finished the final stitch and proceeded to clip the threads. I taped a square of gauze over it and gave Sherlock my sternest look, “Don’t go running around for at least a week. Don’t get it wet. If you accidentally rip out so much as a single stitch or let this wound get infected, I will knock you on head, drag you to the A&E, and let _you_ explain to the doctors the reason you have a knife wound on your belly.”

Sherlock gave me a look that might have been considered chagrined by anyone who didn’t know any better. I raised one eyebrow at him and he slumped against the vanity like a kicked puppy. I gave him one last stern nod before tossing the used packaging and gathering the rest of the supplies to be put away once again.

Sherlock’s Journal

**09.02.97**

Subject is surprisingly calm under pressure. Stitched and dressed wound with minimal fuss. He has suffered no bad dreams or new bouts of melancholy of late. What a pity. If this streak continues, I may be force to revise my hypothesis.

John’s Journal

**11, February 1997**

Dear reader,

If I commit murder today, it is not my fault. My flatmate plays a musical instrument. Yes, a fucking musical instrument.

My only rule when it comes to flatmates has been: stay the hell away from musicians. They make a lot of loud, annoying noises. They keep terrible hours. They throw wild parties that usually result in property damage. And worst of all, they force people to listen to their awful music over and over and over again. I should know. I was in a band. I played the clarinet. Don’t look at me like that. It was a jazz band.

Anyway, Sherlock has decided that since he can’t inflict his presence on the wider world until whatever shady situation he’s in with his brother has blown over, he should instead inflict the results his experiments on dissonance in avant guarde music on me.

I apparently don’t get a vote in this arrangement. So here I am, sitting at the tiny corner I’ve cleared for myself on Sherlock’s table, trying to write up patient notes, but having my concentration utterly shattered by noises that sound like they should be coming from a really terrible automobile accident. I honestly cannot comprehend how those sounds can possibly come from a violin. It’s like Sherlock is bending the laws of physics.

Sherlock’s Journal

**12.02.97**

Subject has been exceedingly irritable over the last few days. Not sure yet of the source of this new behavior. Must investigate further.

John’s Journal

**18, February 1997**

Victor came by for what I can only describe as a sex marathon. I left the flat as soon as Vick—he told me to call him Vick, plastered himself all over Sherlock. I gave them a couple of hours before coming back. When I returned, I heard them before I even got to the door. Giving up on any possibility of spending the night in my own bed, I found a payphone and rung Molly to see if I could crash on her sofa. Murder is becoming a more attractive option by the minute.

**19, February 1997**

Molly was kind enough to allow me to stay on her sofa in spite of the fact that she had to cut her date short. I met her at the door where she introduced me to a soft-spoken Irishman who introduced himself as Richard Brook. He extended his hand in greeting. Silently the cursing social norms that dictated polite behavior, I took it and braced myself for the onslaught of images.

I was instantly transported to a rooftop. I knew it was St. Bart’s only because that was where I had practically lived when I was a student. I felt a hand holding mine in a tight grip. I stared at it for a long moment, then looked up into familiar eyes. Sherlock’s eyes. He had aged by about ten years. Faint lines bracketed the corners of his mouth. His hair was shorter, his cheekbones more prominent. The stark image he presented was framed by a robin’s egg sky. I put a gun in my mouth, savoring the bitter tang of metal and grit, and pulled the trigger.  
Blackness enveloped my vision. For a moment, I thought I saw a bone-white skull, its teeth bared in a death’s-head grin.  
Self-awareness returned. I shook my head, clearing the vision from my mind. Rich wasn’t my first suicide, not even my first suicide with a gun. I should have been horrified, but instead I was curious. I wondered why Sherlock was there. Perhaps they were lovers. There had been intensity in the way Sherlock had looked at him, an intimacy that implied more than friendship. I squashed down a tendril of jealousy. Sherlock wasn’t interested in me that way, which was perfectly fine.

Richard’s hand tightened its grip. His dark eyes bored into mine with disturbing intensity. For a moment, I feared that he’d sensed something. Perhaps an alteration in the pressure of my grip, or a change in my expression had given away something of what I’d seen. But then, he let go of my hand and his face relaxed to a more natural expression. I tried to tell myself that I was seeing things, but it’s morning now and I still haven’t shaken the image of those dark eyes from my mind.

**Later**

I am to go to a party with Molly this Saturday. A friend of Rich’s is hosting it, but he won’t be there until later, which is why she wants me to tag along. It is supposed to be a wine and sex party. I’m not exactly sure how that works, but I like wine and I like sex, so hey, why not? She hinted that she’s also inviting a Special Friend who will be able to keep me busy once Rich gets there.

Now, dear reader, I know what you are thinking, “Ugh, a set-up, that’s the worst,” but you need to understand, Molly’s set-ups are the best. The last guy she set me up with was my boyfriend for a year, and he probably still would be my boyfriend if his job hadn’t sent him to China. I’m not quite whether it is a good idea to have one’s first date at a wine and sex party, but I trust Molly’s judgment.

**Later**

Holy shit. I don’t even know how to describe what I just saw. I came home from Molly’s early this morning to take a shower and change for work. Vick was still in bed, his body taking up most of the mattress. Sherlock curled at the edge, a mere inch away from falling off of it altogether.

I shut the door gently behind me, trying not to wake the sleeping pair. Sherlock’s sensitive ears, however, had him out of bed like a shot. He sat up abruptly, clutching at the blankets to keep himself from sliding off the bed. He gazed about the room, disoriented for a moment, until he saw Victor. He jumped to his feet and yanked the blankets with him.

Vick stirred lazily and looked up at Sherlock with what could only be described as a lovesick smile. The smile melted from his face when it met with Sherlock’s blazing glare.

He picked up his alarm clock and tossed into Vick’s lap, yanking the power cord out of the socket in the process. Sherlock’s voice was clipped, but I could still hear restrained emotion behind his carefully enunciated consonants. “I set this clock for 5:15. It is now after 6:00. I had a very important meeting with my brother a quarter hour ago, which means _somebody_ must have switched off my alarm.”

Vick's brow furrowed in confusion. “Sorry. It kept going off. I thought you needed more sleep. I didn’t realize...he’s your brother, surely he won’t care if you’re late.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to issue a denial, but he just shook his head in frustration and said, “Put on your clothes and leave. Don’t bother coming back.’”

“But I—“

He pointed at the door. His voice was ice. “Get out. Take your things and get out.” He shook his head and paced over to the closet, still completely naked. I tried very hard not to notice how the muscles of his arse and back rippled and flexed under his skin.

Vick tried to wedge himself between Sherlock and the closet. Sherlock glared at him.

“You can’t treat me like this. You can’t just shove me out the door whenever I become inconvenient.”

“Yes, I can.” Sherlock dodged around him and whipped a shirt off the hanger.

Vick gathered what dignity a man in his boxers could at that hour of the morning. “I will not tolerate this kind of treatment. If I leave now, you will never see me again.”

Sherlock slammed the closet door shut and swiveled to face Vick. The air practically vibrated with restrained menace. His voice was quiet with rage. “Get. Out.”

Vick scrambled into his clothes and scuttled out the door with the haste of a cockroach fleeing a stomping foot.

I will admit that I didn’t much like Vick, but to see him dismissed so cruelly rankled. I’m glad that I have more sense than that. I would never be stupid enough to fall in love with a man like Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s Journal

**20.02.97**

Had to get rid of Victor, he was starting to interfere with my work. Subject has been strangely withdrawn today, perhaps due to lack of sleep. Will continue to monitor.


	4. Sex and Wine Party Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock dress up John like a paper doll. John goes to the sex and wine party. Greg Lestrade has a lot of piercings. Everyone's pants are too tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning: SUICIDE**  
>  This is not a drill. If you are triggered by suicide, run away, run far away from this fic. Read the tags and warnings. They are there for a reason.

John’s Journal

25 February 1997

How do I even begin to explain what happened last night? I’ll record it here for your entertainment, dear reader. However, on the off-chance that you are actually my child, you may want to skip this entry if you don’t wish to be scarred for life. The chances of me having children are very low as women aren’t exactly my cup of tea, but stranger things have happened.

I went to the sex and wine party with Molly last night. She stopped over at my flat to help me pick out clothes. She told me that if she let me dress myself I’d show up looking like someone’s dad.

Molly’s brow wrinkled as she sorted through my closet, discarding all of my shirts one by one. Eventually, she sighed and shook her head. “God, John, do you have even one thing that qualifies as sexy?”

“Er,”

Sherlock looked up from his table across the room where he was doing an experiment on something that smelled strongly of sulfur. At least, I hoped that rotten egg smell was sulfur.

He put down his safety goggles and took off his thick rubber gloves. “Allow me,” he said to Molly, taking on the air of an old-fashioned gentleman. He opened the drawer where I kept my vests and pulled out the one that I usually reserved for laundry days because it was a bit too tight. 

Molly’s brows shot up. “Try it on.”

I pulled off my shirt, feeling a bit self-conscious. I was still somewhat trim, though my stomach had softened a touch since med school had left me with little time for the gym. I yanked the vest over my head, disliking the way it bunched under my arms.

Molly nodded enthusiastically. “I approve. Good job, um, what did you say your name was?”

“Sherlock.” He didn’t shake her hand or bother with any of the niceties.

“Any recommendations for a pair of trousers?”

Sherlock did not reply, but dug into the drawer of old clothes that I wore when lounging about the flat. He pulled out a pair of old denims that I’d gotten back during my first years at uni. They’d once been black, but have faded to grey over the years. The knees were ripped, and splashes of white paint from when I’d helped my former boyfriend repaint our flat striped the thighs. Of late, the trousers had gone a bit snug. It was only sentiment that had kept me from tossing them.

Molly and Sherlock looked at me expectantly. I rolled my eyes and shucked off my trousers before putting on the old pair. They were tight around my bum and thighs. The outline of my cock could be clearly seen down the trouser leg. Molly looked at me with widened eyes.

“No.” I said, trying to sound stern. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely, yes. You’re going to a wine and sex party, not a church picnic.” She retorted.

Sherlock looked me over, his eyes lingering on my bulge. “Listen to your friend.”

They both watched me with inscrutable looks on their faces. I gave in. “Fine.”

Molly’s face lit up. “Fantastic! Now, let’s do something about that hair.”

She herded me into the loo where she rubbed two different kinds of gel into my hair, manipulating it until it stood up from my forehead. I wasn’t sure if I liked the effect. I patted my hair. The gel made it feel stiff and crunchy. Molly swatted my fingers. A faint flash of blackness that lasted no longer than an eyeblink flickered across my vision. We’d touched each other enough times that her death vision had faded almost completely.

The first time I’d touched Molly, all I’d seen were long seconds of blackness. She was going to die in her sleep. There was nothing to see, nothing to feel. It was the best kind of death. I hoped it was a very long time coming.

Once I had been deemed sufficiently sexy, Molly chased me out of the loo so she could put the finishing touches on her own look. She took off her long jacket to reveal a black dress. The bust was modest, almost prim, but when she turned around, I saw the back--or rather the complete lack of a back. It was so completely open, I could see the curves of her breasts from the side. Thin silver chains crisscrossing her shoulder blades were the only thing that kept the fabric in place. 

She grinned at my gob-smacked expression. 

"Nice dress." was I could get out. 

Molly spent another quarter hour in the loo doing mysterious things with her hair and makeup before she was ready. By that time Sherlock had returned to his experiment. I'm not sure he even noticed when we left. 

Molly didn’t want to muss her hair or makeup so we took a cab to the party. It was in a posh townhouse near the City. We got out of the cab, split the fare, and knocked on the door.

It was answered by a woman wearing a white dress. The garment was high-necked with a hemline that cut off at the knees, the sort of thing that would have been appropriate at Molly’s theoretical church picnic. That is, the dress would have been appropriate if the woman had chosen to wear anything underneath it. As it was, I could clearly make out her nipples and the dark triangle of hair between her legs.

She smiled broadly at us and said in a voice tinged with only the faintest Russian accent, “Hello, you must be Molly, so nice to see you again. Welcome to my home.”

Molly extended a hand, but the woman ignored it and pulled her into a hug instead. She pulled away and turned to me. “And what is your name?”

“John, Miss Er--”

“Adler, but please, call me Irina.”

I offered a hand, bracing myself against a vision. But she hugged me instead. Her hands were hot through the thin fabric of my vest. I felt a spark of something…strange brush against the edge of my perception, but it was gone as soon as I noticed it. I was suddenly hyperaware of the press of soft breasts against my chest and the heat of breath against my ear. Before my stuttering brain could formulate a response, she moved on.

“Now.” She said, all business, “Let’s get you two something to drink.”

Molly and I followed her into the townhouse. As we walked in, I tried and failed not to look at the delicious cleft of her arse, barely concealed as it was by the thin fabric of her dress.

In short order, Irinia had us ensconced on a white sofa with two glasses of wine and small plates of hor’d’uvres. A sip of the wine revealed it to be quite possibly the best thing I’d ever drunk. Irina left us with the warning that the party was apt to get a little wild after midnight so we might want to leave before then if we were given to shy dispositions.

I nodded, realizing that this must be the sex part of the sex and wine party. I looked at Molly, trying to gauge her reaction. 

“Are you alright with all this?” Molly asked.

“Well, I can’t say it’s what I’m used to, but we have a gracious hostess, and the wine is excellent, so I’m happy to wait and see what happens. Are you alright?”

“I have to confess that I’m the tiniest bit nervous, but mostly I’m just excited.” She grinned and took a sip of her wine.

Molly and I chatted for another half-hour before Irina approached with a bloke in tow. Mollly’s face lit up when she saw him. This must be the friend she’d invited to be my date.

He was tall, with long dark hair that fell past his shoulders. The rings through his eyebrow, lip, nose, and ears accented his beautiful dark eyes and lickable jawline. He wore a skin-tight black t-shirt that had been strategically ripped to reveal a taut abdomen. His jeans might as well have been painted on and I didn’t need to see his backside to know that his arse was as tight as those abs. I froze, realizing that I’d looked at him far too long. It turned out that while I had been ogling, he and Molly had shared a short conversation.

He grinned at me with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Hi, I’m Greg. You’re Molly’s friend, I take it?”

“Yeah, you can call me John.”

“John, eh?”

He sat next to me on the sofa with our thighs touching. Molly excused herself to go to the loo, but not before giving me a big wink over Greg’s shoulder.

“You know, Molly’s told me quite a lot about you.” he said.

“Oh really, what’d she say?” 

He gave me another grin and said in an intimate voice that reached right into my trousers and wrapped itself around my cock, “Only nice things.”

I melted. I glanced around the room, wondering if there was a staircase or a bedroom or someplace dark where we could go.

Then I heard a familiar, carrying voice echoing from the entryway, “…friend of John Watson…”

Greg was up like a shot. “Sorry, I don’t feel too well. I need the loo. I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

And like that, he was gone.

I got up and went to the door to see what on Earth my ridiculous flatmate was doing here.

Irina blocked the doorway with her body. 

She replied, her Russian accent made stronger by her annoyance. “You were not invited. What kind of rude guest pushes in where he is not wanted?”

Sherlock stood on the pavement in a pair of skintight trousers, biker boots, and a black tee with a white anarchy sign. His curls had been pulled back from his face in a tight horsetail. His face lit up when he saw me.

“John! There you are! Will you please tell this ridiculous woman to let me in?”

Irina turned and pinned me down with an icy stare. “Is this man your friend?”

“Er, flatmate.” I corrected, “But he wasn’t—I didn’t—“

At that moment, a woman in a dark suit got out of a nearby cab and walked to the door. I looked at her face and got a vague impression of freckles and serious dark eyes. Her blazer and skirt weren’t bespoke, but they had been altered to flatter her petite frame. 

She looked all of us over, her mouth hardening into a thin line. “What’s the matter, love? Are these two causing problems?” I realized that this must be Sally, who according to Molly, was Irina’s girlfriend, and not someone to be trifled with.

Irina straightened and glared at Sherlock. “This man tried to crash our party. I was telling him to go away, but then this other man said he was his flatmate.”

Sherlock turned to the woman in the suit. “Hi, my name’s Sherlock. That bloke over there is my flatmate, John. I’m not trying to crash your party. I have serious flatmate business that I need to discuss with him.”

The woman raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

The woman gave a gusty sigh, but nodded to Irina, who moved out of the door frame. Sherlock darted inside, grabbing me by the elbow as he passed. Caught by surprise, I stumbled as the vision took me.

I was transported to the loo of a strange flat. I lay in a bathtub filled almost to the rim with lukewarm water. I stared down at my naked pale body as plumes of blood turned the water red-orange. The scar on my belly was still new. The red, raised lump of young tissue stark against the rest of my skin. I noticed matching bruises decorating the crooks of both elbows. Then I saw the face. It was a bone-white death’s head with a gaping black cavern of a mouth. It was getting closer. I couldn’t bear to look. I returned my gaze to the bathtub, to the swirls of crimson that drifted through the water. I was mesmerized by my blood’s sluggish passage, tendrils of red coiling in on itself like smoke from a blown candle. The thing was right next to me. It stopped, just inches from where I sat, paralyzed with fear. I felt the pressure of gentle fingers slide against my scalp. I cringed away, unable to hide my revulsion. The next instant, my consciousness was whipped away by flashing confetti lights before blackness consumed me. 


	5. The Sex and Wine Party: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex. Lots of sex. Bondage. Voyeurism. Spanking. Sexy ladies. For those of you who are reading for the smut, you can stop scrolling now ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thank yous to the very patient and eagle-eyed beta for this chapter, Anarfea, whose insights made it 1000% better.

John's Journal **25, February 1997 (continued)**

  
I was jolted back to reality by Sherlock’s rough yank on my arm. My mind still swam from the vision as he towed me up the stairs and into a bedroom.

What had just happened? I tried to recapture the images that had flashed through my mind. In the vision, Sherlock’s scar had been completely healed, but there was no mistaking the newness of it. I didn’t always know the age of the people in my visions. I had to go by subtle clues. Their hands, their scars, the age of the people around them--if I recognized them, that is. Judging by this scar, I guessed that Sherlock had only about a year to live, but when I’d shaken Rich’s hand, the Sherlock I’d seen looked like he was a decade older than my shaggy-haired flatmate. The cognitive dissonance was giving me a headache. There were only two possibilities, either one of the visions was false, which was impossible. My visions always came true, no matter what I did to prevent them. Perhaps I was missing some key piece of information. Maybe Sherlock would re-injure his belly in a decade’s time. There had to be a piece to the puzzle that I wasn’t seeing. As much as it pained me, I would need to see the vision again if I wanted to learn more information.

The sound of a door closing behind me woke me from my reverie. Like the rest of the house, this room was decorated with soft white fabrics and furniture. The only thing in the room that didn’t look soft and feminine was the bedframe, which was a massive wooden affair that dominated the room.

“Why did you follow me to the party? And why did you drag me up here?” I demanded as Sherlock shut the door behind us.

Sherlock glanced around furtively and whispered, “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“A troublemaker. My brother wants to have a chat with him.”

“Is this somehow related to you getting your belly slashed open last week?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. He wasn’t involved in any of the slashing.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. The oncoming headache was getting worse. “Please tell me that there isn’t a murderer or a drug dealer at this party.”

Sherlock snorted. “None that I know of. My target’s a dull, law-abiding bloke. The two of you would probably get along like a house on fire. Really, John, there’s no need to get so stirred up on my behalf.”

I rolled my eyes. A thought suddenly flew into my mind. “Are you a spy?”

“Depends on your definition of spy. I am very good at reading people. Sometimes my brother asks me to use that skill to help him with his job.”

“And his job is?”

“He would tell you he’s an aide to a minor government official.”

“And you would tell me ...”

He flashed a quick smile. “Nothing.”

I glared at him. “Delightful. So what you’re saying is that I must help you crash this party for the sake of Queen and country.”

He cocked his head, considering. “Well, when you put it that way, I suppose, yes.” I was opening my mouth to tell him exactly what I thought of that idea when I heard female voices and the thud of feet on the stairs.

Sherlock grasped my wrist and tugged me toward the cupboard. Suddenly, I was in a bathtub, staring down at pallid skin and orange-red water. I studied my hands this time, noting the lack of wrinkles and scars. These were a young man’s hands. There was no way they belonged to the Sherlock in my vision of Rich’s death. I clenched my teeth against a scream as I felt those horrid, groping fingers in my hair again.

When I jerked back to consciousness, I realized that I was now in the cupboard with Sherlock crowded close behind me. The door to the room opened. I peered through the slats of the door to try to see who it was. I got a glimpse of a white dress and a black pencil skirt.

Irina’s voice carried across the room. “God, Sally, you’ve no notion of what that suit does to me. Come closer so I can take it off of you.”

Sally gave a low chuckle then spoke in calm, iron-hard voice that brooked no argument. “Sit. Down.”

The bed creaked. I peered through the slats, but all I could see was Sally’s black-clad backside as she knelt over Irina. I heard the muted tinkle of a buckle unfastening and the slippery sound of leather sliding against fabric.

I heard Sally’s voice again. “You don’t get to be in control tonight. I’ll tell you when you’re allowed to touch me. Now, get rid of this horrid thing,” there was a sound of ripping fabric. “I’m sick of watching you parade your tits around like some fucking whore.”

“But I am a fucking whore.” Irina’s voice was breathy with excitement.

“You’re my fucking whore and your tits belong to me.” There was another sound of ripping fabric and the crack of a hand slapping against bare flesh.

Irina gave a quiet cry that was quickly swallowed by a moan.

Sally’s voice was icy and controlled as she demanded, “who do you belong to?”

“You.” Irina gasped.

I heard the sound of a palm striking flesh again. “Say it again.”

“You,” she whispered a little louder this time.

The palm cracked against flesh again and again. “Say it louder. If I wanted you to mumble at me, I would have told you.”

“You. I belong to you. Oh God, I belong to you. I am yours. Please … just, oh God--” The last word broke off into a loud moan.

Sally practically purred with satisfaction. “Hmm, that’s what I thought. Now, I’ve got to say hello to the guests. Do you think you can be a good girl ‘til I get back?”

Irina must have nodded in reply because I heard no sound.

There was a faint groan of wood and another creak of bedsprings. The next thing I heard was the thud of a closing door.

I looked through the slats again. Irina sat up in bed with her back against the headboard. Her wrists were bound over her head by a belt looped through one of the wooden rails of the bed frame. Her hair was disheveled and her lipstick a bit smudged. Her dress was now ripped down the front, fully exposing her entire torso. Bright red handprints from Sally’s earlier attentions marked her breasts. As I watched, she fidgeted, rucking up her skirt to reveal the dark hair at the apex of her thighs.

She looked right at me and slowly, deliberately spread her legs, exposing her cunt to my gaze. I couldn’t look away. She gave me a small nod, still looking right into my eyes. There was no doubt. She’d seen me.

Behind me, Sherlock took a shuddering breath. Suddenly, I realized that his cock was nestled right up against my bum, and that it was, er, hardening. I tried to step away, but as soon as I shifted my weight, paper crackled under my feet. 

I froze. This was ridiculous. We were already caught. Irina had made that clear enough, but a small irrational part of my brain worried that by moving, by making my presence impossible to ignore, I would break the spell we had all fallen under. I shifted my foot to a more comfortable position, settling in for a long wait. Sherlock’s hand snaked around my hip and pulled me close. I almost jumped out of my skin with shock.

“Sherlock,” I whispered, “what are you doing?”

“You know exactly what I’m doing. Stop asking stupid questions.”

“We can’t do this. You’re my flatmate. I barely know you. We’re hiding in a stranger’s cupboard, for God’s sake.”

He released me, and whispered in reply, “Apologies. I misread your signals. However, I would like to point out that unless I miss my guess, we are about to watch two very beautiful women have sex. Now, I’m not one to be pushy in these matters, but if there were ever a time to shag one’s flatmate in a stranger’s cupboard, this would be it.”

As much as I hated to admit it, he did have a point. I was already hard as a rock and I hadn’t even touched myself yet.

I looked at Irina again. The expression on her face could only be described as a predatory grin. My pulse sped in response. That decided me. God help me, there was no way this wasn’t going to turn into a colossal mess, but damn, it would be worth it.

“Do you know, I really hate you sometimes.” I complained.

“Is this your way of saying yes?” he asked, his breath hot in my ear.

“Yes.” I whispered.

I rocked back a fraction of an inch, taking a visceral pleasure in the way his erection aligned with the cleft of my arse. Sherlock gasped. His hand slid around my hip again. He held me close while he slowly ground against me. 

I touched myself through my jeans, the blunt pressure of my palm through the thick fabric making me feel far more aroused than it should. I peered again through the slats in the door, and was startled to see Irina staring at my groin. I looked down. Bars of light from the bedroom striped my body. She could see everything I did. I looked into her eyes and deliberately stroked myself from base to tip. Irina licked her lips.

Sally reentered, closing and locking the door behind her. Irina’s eyes flew to her. Irina gave her a long look before deliberately shifting her gaze to my hiding place in the closet. Sally’s eyes followed Irina’s. She met my eyes for a brief second and huffed out a short laugh before returning her full attention to Irina. With firm, impersonal hands, Sally pulled her up to her knees and turned her around until Irina’s backside faced the cupboard. She laid a palm between Irina’s shoulder blades. Irina rested her bound hands on the headboard for balance and bent over until her forehead touched the back of her hands.Once she was settled, Sally yanked Irina’s dress up around her waist, exposing her bare arse.

She rubbed her palm soothingly over the soft, pliant flesh of Irina’s backside and murmured something low and threatening. I strained to hear, but I couldn’t make out the individual words.  
Suddenly, Sally’s palm rose and landed with a sharp crack.

Irina’s entire body twitched forward. A loud gasp escaped her lips.

“One.” Irina whispered, just barely loud enough for me to hear.

Sally’s hand gave Irene’s arse a brief caress before it rose and fell again.

“Two.”

After five strikes, I could see the reddening of Irina’s arse even from my vantage point. The sight of her skin slowly darkening under the force of Sally’s deliberate blows, the sound of flesh striking flesh, heated my blood with need, driving me to grind harder back against Sherlock. 

Irina now whimpered desperately, alternately arching into and cringing away from Sally’s palm. I no longer knew what number they were on. Irina had lost track ages ago, and my higher mental functions had completely disintegrated the second Irina had spread her legs for me. Without thinking, I took Sherlock’s free hand and pressed it urgently to the front of my trousers. I ignored the brief flurry of images that accosted me. I was too focused on seeking my own release to pay attention to visions. He slowly stroked over the outline of my cock, his hand sliding down to cup my balls before sliding up again to press the heel of his hand against the head.

I released his hand and allowed my head to fall back against Sherlock’s chest, turning my face to the side to avoid skin-to-skin contact. Sherlock continued his slow stroking along my cock as he ground into my arse. I rolled my hips, revelling in the feeling of the hard head of his cock against my arse.

The sound of a palm striking soft flesh ceased. I raised my head and peered through the slats of the door to see what was happening.

Irina’s hands were still bound, but she was now lying on her back with her legs spread, exposing her breasts and cunt. Sally knelt over her, sliding her fingers into her pussy as her thumb worked her clit. She kissed Irina roughly, barely giving her room for air. Irina moaned and writhed like a wild thing, arching her back with a last, agonized moan as she came on Sally’s fingers.

But Sally wasn’t finished with her. Her hand kept up its rhythm. Sensitized from her orgasm only moments ago, Irina bucked and cried out. Sally’s fingers tightened around Irina’s thigh, knuckles going white as she fought Irina’s attempts to clamp her legs together. Irina cried out again. Tears streamed down her face as she sobbed in agonized arousal, but Sally did not relent. This time, Irina screamed as she came, her entire body seizing with tension before going boneless against the mattress.

Sally slid her fingers out of Irina’s pussy, wiping them on the ruined dress before rocking back on her heels and unbuckling the belt that bound her lover’s wrists. She caressed them with gentle hands, placing a kiss on each palm. Slowly, she trailed her mouth up to crook of her elbow before transferring her attention to Irina’s breasts. With lips as soft as the flutter of butterfly wings, she kissed the red marks before turning her attention to her nipples. She nibbled and sucked them until Irina’s hands wound their way into her hair, urgently pushing her toward the place where she most needed attention. Sally obeyed, kissing her way down her abdomen to the dark hair between her legs. Sally’s head obscured my view so I could no longer see what was happening, but the wet sounds of tongue and lips against engorged flesh made it easy enough for me to guess. I focused on Irina’s breasts, instinctively matching my breath to their rapid rise and fall. Behind me, Sherlock’s thrusts became more frantic, the pressure of his hand on my cock rougher and more erratic. Suddenly, Irina arched, her fingers going rigid against Sally’s scalp.

Sherlock soon followed her, tightening his fingers on my hip and breathing in hard, shuddering gasps as he came. No longer caring about making noise, I turned around to face him. His hand slid around my waist. I buried my head in his shoulder and ground my cock against his thigh, reveling in the novel sensation of sharing physical intimacy without feeling the constant nagging annoyance of visions that came with it. The lack of disturbing sights and foreign emotions made it easy to focus on my own arousal.

Awareness of Sherlock filled my senses, the cool scent of his deodorant, the tickle of an escaped curl against my cheek, the press of his bony chest against mine. Dear God, I was going to come from only the warm damp friction of my pants against my cock. I barely felt a tightening in my bollocks before I found my own release. It came with a speed and ferocity that unnerved me. It was all I could do to choke back a cry as I collapsed against Sherlock’s chest, my muscles unstrung by the force of my orgasm. After a few long moments, I realized that Sherlock’s body was stiff against me, his arms held awkwardly to the sides. He couldn’t have made his rejection of my unintentional gesture of affection more obvious if he’d flung me away from him.

Slowly, conscious of the small space, I turned around and moved away until we were no longer touching. I mourned the loss of the warm comfort of his body, taken away so quickly after we’d just shared…something. I still wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but I felt shaken and strange, as though my innards had been rearranged and I no longer fit into my skin in exactly the same way.

Perhaps it just that this was the first time I’d shared an orgasm with another person without skin-to-skin contact, without horrible visions dancing in the back of my mind as I chased oblivion.

I turned my attention to the big bed. Sally and Irina now lay tangled together in the sheets. With utmost tenderness, Sally stroked Irina’s hair. I shivered for a moment, remembering the fingers from the vision. She whispered as she stroked. For her part, Irina’s body was limp, her sprawled limbs exuding the boneless satisfaction of a cat napping in the sun.

An eternity passed, one that made my own loneliness even more apparent. Watching Irina and Sally together, I realized that I’d never found that kind of ease with anyone. Simple things like hugging, holding hands, and sharing a bed were always difficult for me. How could I ever find peace when every time I touched someone I loved, I had to watch them die?

Behind me, Sherlock was practically vibrating with impatience. He wanted nothing more than to get as far away from me as possible. I tried to tell myself that was a good thing. At least I did not have to worry about fending off attempts at cuddling.

After what felt like an age, but was probably closer to a half hour, Irina got up and disappeared into the loo. She returned, clad in a black silk dressing gown. The tissue-thin fabric revealed every curve of her body. She tied the belt with lazy grace, unconcerned with the generous amount of cleavage and thigh that peeked out. Sally once again donned her suit, giving Irina a long, toe-curling kiss before taking her hand and guiding her out the door to rejoin the party.

Sherlock and I burst out of the cupboard. I wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but I knew that I wasn’t ready to talk about it. I skinned out of my jeans and tossed my sodden pants into a nearby bin before quickly putting my trousers back on.

Seeing Sherlock’s face, devoid now of any hint of lust, I remembered his original excuse for coming here. I did not for one second belief his folderol about crashing the party for the sake of some patriotic mission. The sooner I could get him away from here, and away from whatever trouble he was trying to stir up, the better.

“Do you want to go back to the flat?” I asked. In spite of his rudeness, I felt the need to take care of him. He was clearly uncomfortable with what we’d just done.

He narrowed his eyes, gazing at me with a strange intensity. “I’m leaving. I’ve got things to do for Mycroft. I probably won’t be back at the flat until tomorrow.”

I was a bit taken aback. Sherlock had never bothered to inform me of his schedule before. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

He raised a brow at me. “I just had an orgasm while living out the sexual fantasy of half the male population of England. I’m more than alright, but right now I have someplace to be, and if I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late.” He checked his watch. “Enjoy the sex party. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that, he slipped out the door and down the stairs. 


	6. Sex and Wine Party Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wine and sex party comes to an end. Sherlock is mysterious. Greg loses his shirt. John is mopey. The plot inches forward.
> 
> **Triggers for: suicide, death, and mild gore**

John's Journal **25, February 1997 (continued)**

I followed him not long after. I worried that someone might have noticed me slipping downstairs, but I needn’t have bothered. It was after midnight and everyone else’s attention was being taken up by things that were far more engrossing than me.

The cozy yellow lights that had greeted my arrival had been turned off and replaced by the purple glow of black lights. The parlor, which had previously felt cozy and feminine now felt otherworldly. The soft cream furniture now positively blazed in the dim violet light.

As I moved through the crowd, I spotted Irina and Sally. Sally sat on a sofa with her skirt hiked up and her thighs spread. Irina knelt between them. Judging from the way Sally’s fingers curled tightly in her hair, it wasn’t difficult to imagine what they were up to.

I suppressed the tendril of arousal that uncoiled in my lower belly. I’d gotten myself into enough trouble for one evening. I quickly spotted Molly. I took a step toward her and raised my hand in greeting, but moved on very quickly when I realized that she had a someone’s head up her skirt. Wine. I needed wine. I didn’t want to go home yet. I wasn’t ready to be alone, but everyone at the party was wrapped up in their own private pleasures. I felt like an interloper into something not meant for me.

I turned for the kitchen and just barely missed crashing into someone. It was Greg. His face lit up with relief when he saw me.

“John, sorry for leaving you so abruptly. I’m feeling much better now.”

“Sorry, Greg, but I was just on my way out.” Guilt burned my cheeks. He was supposed to have been my date, and I’d shagged my flatmate while he was downstairs. I was such a tosser.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Yeah. All this is a bit much for me right now.” I gestured around the room.

He nodded. “Exhibitionism isn’t really my cup of tea either. I always get all self-conscious.”

I looked him over and raised my eyebrows.

He laughed and gave me an intimate smile. “Don’t worry, I don’t have anything to be ashamed of. There’s a group of us in the kitchen. Some people are taking a breather from the excitement, some are just more interested in wine than sex. You’re more than welcome to join us if you want.”

I forced a smile and nodded. The idea of returning home to the flat, dark and lifeless without Sherlock made my stomach clench. I felt like the worst kind of arsehole for leading Greg on, but I couldn’t bear to be alone with my thoughts. I allowed him to guide me to the kitchen where he poured me a glass from a bottle I hadn’t yet tasted.

There was a larger group standing around the large island that dominated the room, but we propped our hips on the edge of the counter in the corner and made small talk.

I learned that he was the youngest of seven children and that most of his siblings were over a decade older than him.

“I’m only really close to my sister. She’s got five years on me.”

“I have a sister,” I volunteered, “but she’s younger. She’s just started uni.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Very well. She’s much smarter than I was at that age. Mum says she’s managed to test out of so many classes that she’s already doing 2nd-year coursework.”

“Wow. What’s she studying?”

“Finance. She wants to become an investment banker.”

“A doctor and a banker in the family. Your folks must be proud.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” I didn’t bother to explain that my dad was out of the picture—had never been in the picture. I’d never felt the lack of a father. Mum and granddad had been better parents than most kids got. 

A few people from the party drifted into the kitchen and our tete-a-tete expanded into something a bit more lively. I listened to gossip and laughed at jokes, switching from wine to water when I started feeling tipsy. Irene and Sally’s friends were lovely. Once again, I found myself envying them. They had built something here. They had love and interesting friends and a beautiful home. I had horrid visions, a moody flatmate, and a life of isolation.

Greg’s warm smile jarred me from my depressing thoughts. Comparing my life to others’ wasn’t going to make mine better. I might as well enjoy the happiness I had in this moment. I smiled back at Greg.

A pink-haired woman tugged my sleeve. “You’re a doctor, what do you think?”

“About?”

“About that study that was recently published in _The Journal of Clinical Psychology._ Have you been living under a rock? It’s been all over the news. A psychologist did a follow-up on the Dubois experiments.”

My stomach dropped. I felt ill. To most, the Dubois experiments were a cautionary tale of medical ethic violations that every first-year medical student was required to learn about. To me, they felt like a violation. Charles Dubois had been a pediatric psychologist. In the 1970s, he worked with institutionalized children and teenagers. During that time, he became convinced that some of the children had supernaturally heightened senses. He even believed that one child could see the future. He spent hours interviewing them. He forced his subjects to endure hundreds of medical tests as he tried to find a physiological explanation for their so-called gifts. That would have been bad enough, but what he did next was torture.

According to Dubois, the children’s gifts manifested in sporadic bursts. This made creating results that could be reliably reproduced impossible, so he tried to find a way to force the children’s gifts to the surface. He started with mild electric shocks. When that didn’t work, he moved on to ice water baths, then sleep deprivation, then psychedelic drugs. The study was halted when one of his test subjects committed suicide.

I didn’t like to think about that study. It was only luck that I hadn’t been born to parents like Aunt Eileen’s. People like Dubois were the reason that my family kept the curse a secret.

I tried to muster an expression of cool interest, “Oh?”

“Yeah, a researcher recruited a group of people from professions where good intuition is an asset. I can’t remember all of them, but he had stock brokers, physicians, veterinarians, coppers, and so on. He asked them predict an outcome, and then roll a die. They did this a thousand times. Then he had a control group drawn from a sample that was representative of the general population do the same thing. At the end of it, he ran the numbers and found that in aggregate some professions, have a statistically significant better chance at predicting the outcome than the general population. And even more disturbingly, the general population sample was statistically significantly better than random chance.

Anyway, he’s in the news because he burned all of his documents and destroyed the hard drives when the government demanded that he turn over identifying information on all his best-performing subjects. Now, he’s fled to The Netherlands and is trying to avoid extradition.”

“Has anyone tried to replicate his results?” I asked, a cold sweat beginning to form on the back of my neck.

“Nobody in academia will touch it. The Dubois study was bad enough, but being forced to choose between jail time and violating professional ethics, either way, your career is destroyed, Hell no. I’m sure the government lackeys are probably trying to come up with their own experiments, but so far as I know, nothing’s come of it.”

I shivered. I needed to call my mum and warn her. I wondered if she already knew. I suppressed a sigh, I was going to have to be more careful than ever.

Eventually, the party wound down as people began to drift back to their homes. I caught myself yawning and checked my watch. Damn, it was already 3:00 am.

“I really should get going.” I said.

Greg yawned. “Yeah, me too. I wonder if Molly and Rich are ready to leave. I haven’t seen them in a while.”

Sally walked in carrying a handful of empty wine glasses. “Where’ve you been, lad? Molly and Rich left ages ago.”

Greg shook his head in annoyance. “Blast. I was supposed to stay at Molly’s flat tonight. I live clear across town.”

“You can stay on the sofa if you want.” Sally offered.

I thought of returning to the empty flat alone. The idea left me cold. “It’s alright.” I said, “You can stay at mine. My flatmate is out for the night, so there won’t be any problems.”

Greg practically sagged with relief. “Thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”

Sally’s eyes darted between me and Greg. “Come along, John, I’ll help you get your jacket.” As soon as we were out of earshot, she whispered, “Watch your back with him. He’s a good bloke. I don’t think he would do anything inappropriate, but I can’t help but get the feeling that he’s up to something.”

“Thank you for the warning. I’ll be careful.” I lowered my voice, “and, er, thank you for the other thing. It was, er—“

“Don’t mention it.” she replied with a wink.

Soon, Greg and I left the party. We had to walk quite a long way before we found a cab.My jacket did not provide sufficient warmth against the chilly night air and soon I was clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering.

With a smoothness born of long practice, Greg took my hand in his. I suppressed a shudder of revulsion. I hated it when people touched me without warning. The vision washed over me like a long, rolling wave.

The glow of the street lamps and the traffic noises were replaced by a the intermittent beeps of medical equipment. I lay in a hospital bed surrounded by machines. I looked down at my hands. The skin was paper-thin with age. Blue-green veins snaked across their backs like rivers on a map.

I heard a man’s broken whisper. “Greg.”

I looked up to see a hawk-nosed stranger. His body was folded in on itself with exhaustion and grief. He was mostly bald, and what little hair he had was white. Heavy wrinkles softened his severe features. His hand covered my own. I felt dry cracked lips brush my brow and then my mouth before darkness overtook me.

I returned to reality and was back on the pavement again. I relaxed, not letting go of Greg’s hand. Now that I’d fully experienced it, I was able to push the vision to the back of my mind. It was still there playing the same scene over and over again, but now it was a quiet niggling annoyance, like an itch I couldn’t scratch, rather than a full body experience. In spite of the unexpectedness of it, I liked the vision. Greg had someone to mourn him, to hold his hand and give him a goodbye kiss. Perhaps it was the emptiness I was feeling tonight, but there was something about Greg’s death that captivated me. I returned my attention to the movie playing in the back of my skull and studied the hawk-nosed man. I memorized the stooped curve of his spine, the tears in his pale blue eyes. I wondered if anyone would mourn me the way this man mourned Greg.

We eventually found a cab. He released me and opened the door, placing his hand at the small of the back as I stepped into the vehicle. I was a bit taken aback by the small gallant gesture. Was this a prelude to something more? Did he think we were going to have sex just because I’d held his hand as we walked down the street? Did I want to shag him? I looked him over, studying his warm brown eyes and firm jawline. His piercings winked in the light of passing street lamps. There was no denying he was hot, and there was a rough gentleness to him that I found alluring, but sex? What if Sherlock found out, as he inevitably would? Would he be hurt?

On the other hand, considering Sherlock’s general lack of interest in emotional relationships, I couldn’t imagine that he would care a whit if I slept with someone else. Knowing him, the chief emotion he would probably feel would be relief that I wasn’t following him around like a lovesick calf.

On the other hand, was Greg even interested? He was certainly friendly, but there was a big difference between flirting and shagging.

Eventually, we arrived at the flat. Greg’s jaw dropped when I finally got the door unlocked and ushered him inside.

“You live here?”

“Yes.” I replied, wondering if I’d mistaken Greg’s character. I’d never imagined him to be a snob.

“But you’re a doctor.”

“No, I’m a medical student. I’m not making money yet.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s alright.” I replied, tamping down my annoyance.

We stood awkwardly for a moment. I cast desperately for something polite to say to put the uncomfortable silence to rest. 

Of course, Sherlock chose this moment to return to the flat, never mind that he wasn’t supposed to make an appearance until tomorrow. His knife-sharp voice cut across the room. “Lestrade, what do you think you are doing here?”

The words, “It’s not what it looks like” flashed through my mind. I dismissed the thought immediately. Sherlock didn’t care.

Greg whipped around to face him. “How do you know my name? We’ve never even met.”

I looked at my flatmate, really properly looked at him--and felt an almost uncontrollable urge to either stab him or snog him. There was no way he’d ever actually planned to stay out all night. He stood in what passed for our kitchen. A box filled to the brim with what I hoped were animal bones was propped on one hip. He’d already changed into pajama bottoms, a different t-shirt, and a dressing gown. Safety goggles perched on his forehead. On anyone else, this getup would have looked ridiculous, but on Sherlock, it looked like his regular clothes. He pinned Greg to the spot with a glare.

“Using John to cozen your way into my flat, I see. Well, it won’t do you any good. You won’t find the evidence you’re looking for here. I’m not your serial killer.”

Anger suffused every inch of Greg’s posture. He clenched his fists at his sides, “Three murders and only one person to linked to all the victims? Really, Sherlock what do you take me for?”

“Um, an idiot? Am I _really_ the only person who had access to all three victims? Did you even bother to question Linda Gardiner’s son. He knows all the victims and he has a history of animal abuse. ”

“He’s only fourteen.”

“Fourteen and clever.”

“Wait. How do you know all that?” Greg spluttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Unlike you, I use my brain. Now, run along, I’ve got things to do, and you should probably make yourself presentable as—and there they are.”

At that moment, a trio of men in dark suits burst into the room. One of them flashed a badge at Greg, while the other two took his elbows. He fought the men’s hold, ripping himself from their grasp. One of them reached for him, grabbing his shirt collar. Greg wriggled his arms free of the sleeves, allowing the shirt to pop free over his head before making a run for the door. The three men sprinted after him.

I stared at the open door, my jaw slack with shock. Eventually, I turned to Sherlock, “What in the hell just happened? Please tell me those men aren’t going to kill Greg if they catch him.”

Sherlock looked at me dumbfounded. “Why would they kill him? No, he’s going to see my brother, who will give him a stern warning and a generous bribe in exchange for leaving me alone.”

“Oh.” I replied, feeling relieved and a bit confused.

Sherlock began rummaging through his box of bones. “ Lestrade is a Met cop who’s been following me for the past two weeks. He suspects me of committing several murders. He was using you to get access so he could search the flat.”

“Really? I thought he’d just missed his ride.”

“And you were kind enough to take him in? How naive do you think I am? Really, John, you don’t have to spare my feelings.”

My face burned with shame as I remembered my indecision about whether or not I would have sex with Greg if he offered.

Sherlock glanced at my red face. “Don’t feel too bad, it wasn’t all a pretense. He certainly wasn’t faking his hard-on, and even though you aren’t traditionally handsome, I imagine most men would find you quite fuckable.”

My embarrassment immediately transmuted into anger. “Fuckable.” That arsehole had just called me “fuckable.”

He was certainly acting like an arch little shite, considering he’d all but run screaming from the room after what amounted to little more than a bit of grinding and groping, acts that _he’d_ initiated. I wanted to stab him. I wanted to stab him in his smug, snotty, sexy, beautiful face. Ugh, who was I kidding? I wanted to shag him--and then stab him.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I needed to get away from him and think. I headed to the bathroom to take a shower.

As my anger with Sherlock wore off, I remembered his conversation with Greg. He’d as much as admitted that he was a person of interest in several murders. Was he a murderer? And why had government goons tried to haul off Greg? And why was he waiting for me at home after he’d explicitly told me he wouldn’t be here. Was he afraid I’d bring someone home? Could he actually be jealous? I dismissed that thought immediately. He’d made it clear that the idea of me fucking Greg didn’t bother him a whit, and I’d believe he was a murderer before I’d believe he cared about another person. Damn, I was probably living with a murderer. I should probably be more worried about that.

I washed the last of the shampoo out of my hair, secured a towel around my waist and stepped out of the bathroom.

Sherlock stood at the kitchen counter, dipping what was unmistakably a human humerus into a beaker full of acid. I edged toward the door.

Trying to sound casual, I asked, “You haven’t actually murdered anyone, right? Greg was just making all that up.”

Sherlock pulled the bone out of the acid, took some measurements, and replied, “Define murder. I’ve never done any, uh, recreational killing, but my work has often led me into some, hmm, shall we say, unique situations.”

Oh dear God. I took another step toward the door. “But you’ve only killed in self-defense, right?”

There was a long silence.

I desperately tried to change the subject. “So what are you doing?”

“My brother has set me to figuring out which acid his enemies used to dissolve the corpse of one of his agents. I only have photos to go on, so I’m having a difficult time determining the chemical signature.”

Suspecting that I was going to regret it, I offered, “Would you like some help? Perhaps I could take a look.”

Sherlock showed me the photo. It was gruesome. The body had been reduced to a sludge speckled with bits of bone. I stared. “Could it be sulfuric acid? I think I read about that in a detective novel once.”

Sherlock began pacing, “No, it wasn’t sulfuric acid. Look at the upper right corner. You’ll see corrosion on a glass from where some of the acid splashed up. Sulfuric acid doesn’t react with glass.”

“Lye, then?”

“No, it’s not lye. The remains are the wrong color. Really, John.”

He paced a few more times before whirling to face me. “That’s it!”

“What?”

“It’s hydrogen peroxide mixed with sulfuric acid. Oh, how could I have missed it? It was so obvious.”

Sherlock whisked over to the closet and began stripping off his clothes with no attempt at modesty. At that moment I realized I was clad only in a towel. I shook my head at myself. Curse the man. Once again I’d been swept up in the tornado that was Sherlock Holmes. Well, if I was going to let myself get sucked in, I might as well see it all the way through.

I went to the makeshift wardrobe that served as my closet and pulled out a pair of jeans and a jumper.

Sherlock looked over at me. “What are you doing?”

I gave him my best stern look, “I’m not about to let you do whatever foolish thing you’re planning on doing without some backup.”

He rolled his eyes, “And what use would you be? You’re a medical student.”

I ignored him, going to the tiny safe I had installed behind the nightstand and bolted to the wall when I first moved in.

“You have too much curiosity and absolutely no sense of self-preservation. You need someone to pull you away from the edge before you throw yourself over.” I said as I twirled the dial on the combination.

“And you think you are this person? My, how protective of you.”

“Shut up and put on your coat.”

I pulled my semi-automatic handgun and shoulder holster out of the safe. Sherlock raised one eyebrow at me as I put it on and secured my firearm.

“Don’t give me that look. The last time you went on one of your adventures, you came back with a knife wound.”

“Do you know how to use that thing?”

“What do you think?”

He gave me an assessing glance, but didn’t respond. He sighed, “Oh, very well, come along, but don’t expect me to slow down for you.”

I spent half the night running up and down the streets of London chasing armed men. At one point, Sherlock, running ahead of me on his long legs, rounded a corner a few meters ahead. By the time I followed him around it, he had disappeared. I eventually found him again in an abandoned tenement where he had been tied to a chair and beaten bloody.

I freed him and led him from the room, my hand wrapped around his scraped knuckles. The adrenaline racing through my veins made it easy to ignore the visions that danced behind my eyes. I guided him around the pair of bodies that lay just inside the entryway. He slowed, tugging at my hand as he gave them a long look. I pulled him forward again. With my cursed luck, the shots I'd fired had drawn the attention of every criminal in a mile radius. Sherlock stared at me for a moment, gave me a wink, and took off running. I followed him through the maze of streets lit gray by the pre-dawn light.

Eventually, when we had shaken off the last of the pursuit and even Sherlock’s stomach was grumbling, we stumbled into a small cafe. We sat in a booth in the back and ordered two greasy plates of blood sausage with beans on toast.

I tried very hard not to look at him. He wasn’t an idiot. He’d heard the gunshots.

He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, “You’ve got more secrets than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“You killed men in cold blood today and you’re not even bothered.”

I shrugged. “They were going to kill you.”

“But you’re a doctor. Aren’t you supposed to 'do no harm' or some such rubbish.”

“They were going to harm you, you idiot.”

Sherlock fixed me with a penetrating gaze. “You’ve killed before.”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Very well, I won’t pry. For now, at least. Where did you get to be such a good shot?”

“I was a competitive marksman when I was younger. Prizes from competitions helped get me through uni.”

“Interesting. You are full of surprises, John Watson.”

At that moment, the food came. I dug into my portion. Sherlock watched me while picking at his food. Being the focus of his gaze was a bit unnerving, but I was too hungry to be put off. After that, we returned to the flat to sleep off what had proven to be a very long night.

Last night was the maddest, scariest, most surreal night of my entire life. I should be feeling traumatized, or angry, or something other than this wild sense of euphoria. The truth is that I loved every minute of it.

There must be something very wrong with me.


	7. Mycroft's Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Lestrade have a heated exchange and Mycroft's clothes get destroyed in the process.
> 
> READ THE WARNINGS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for:
> 
> Mild dubcon: the sex is consensual, but the lead-up could be triggering for readers who are triggered by dub/noncon  
> Knifeplay: no blood is shed, but you may wish to avoid this chapter if you find knifeplay triggering.  
> Mild internalized homophobia
> 
> Many many thank yous to the brilliant and ever-vigilant Anarfea whose feedback was instrumental in helping me bring this chapter to the next level.

Mycroft’s Journal

**26, Feb. 1997**

I have done a foolish thing, and I have no one to blame for it but myself. I haven’t updated this log in quite some time. My life these past few months has been consumed by my work and there’s nothing about my job that I care enough about to commit to paper. However, this most recent transgression is different. It is _mine_ in a way that my work never can be. I can’t fully explain why. It was such an odd encounter, so outside of my usual interactions with humanity that I feel as though if I don’t write it down somewhere, it will never have happened.

It began when my men brought in Gregory Lestrade. As soon as I found out that he was investigating my brother for murder, I read every scrap of paper I could find on him. He is a policeman with the Met. He’s young and new to the work, one of those cursed souls who is born to his job. He’ll never have a happy marriage. His wife won’t be able to compete with his career. He’ll be a stranger to his children. His only friends will be his coworkers. I suppose that is why I let my guard down. In a way, I imagined he was a kindred spirit, because God knows I’ve doomed myself to a lifetime of sacrifice and service, though of a different sort.

My men brought him into the room still handcuffed. Judging from the trickle of blood on his cheek and his lack of shirt, there’d been a fight. I waved off my men and they left without a word. They were too discreet to object, but I could tell from Bernard’s slightly raised brow that he thought leaving us alone together was a bad idea. He was correct, but not for the reasons he suspected.

I gave Lestrade my best facsimile of a smile. I hated dealing with people. They were so tedious. I pulled a key out of my pocket and uncuffed him. I wasn’t concerned about my safety. I knew from his file that Lestrade was an honorable man. I had nothing to fear from him in the way of physical violence, and freeing him would cause him to feel beholden to me, thus making him predisposed to accept my offer.

“I apologize for the rough treatment earlier. Sometimes my men get a little overzealous in the line of duty.”

“And what duty would that be?” he asked suspiciously, rubbing his wrists. I noticed red marks where the metal handcuffs had dug in. He would probably have bruises tomorrow.

“Why, serving the British Crown, of course.”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, “And who the fuck are you?”

I took a few steps back and propped my hip on the edge of my desk, doing my best to look harmless, “I’m an aide to a government bureaucrat whose name you’ve never heard of, just a humble civil servant doing my part.”

He frowned in concentration, “Hmm. You look familiar. In fact, I was just talking to someone who holds himself in that same prissy way.”

I bristled at the slur. He took a step toward me. For all I was a few inches taller than him, it was all I could do not to lean back further against the desk.

“You’re related to that fucking psychopath aren’t you?”

“If you’re referring to Sherlock Holmes, then you should know that that you’d do well to leave him alone in the future.”

Lestrade glared, “Sherlock has been linked to several murders around the city. If you think I’m going to let him get away with them, you’re delusional.”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “I’ll not deny that Sherlock has a great many faults, but stupidity is not one of them. If he actually wanted to kill somebody, you would never even know that a murder had occurred.”

Lestrade advanced on me with a controlled, predatory gait. I stood my ground. Any sign of either surrender or aggression on my part would trigger the pent-up rage that had been building inside him. He wouldn’t strike me. He was not a man who would commit an act of violence that was not in self-defense, no matter how angry he was, but I feared that he would say something he might regret. I needed to get him on my side so he would agree to my deal. Achieving that would be much more difficult if he lost his temper. 

“You two think you are so clever, don’t you, with your posh accents and pretty-boys in suits to do your dirty work. You think you can kidnap me to your swanky office and persuade me to go away with some mealy-mouthed threats.”

He was only a foot away from me. It was a struggle not to lean away, but I just managed it. I tried to keep my voice relaxed “I was going to offer you a bribe to leave Sherlock alone. More flies with honey, you know, but I can see now that you wouldn’t take it in any case.”

“Anything to protect you baby brother, eh?” Lestrade shifted forward an inch.

His final words caught me aback. He hadn’t said “younger brother” or “little brother,” neither of which would have phased me. He’d said “baby brother,” implying that Sherlock was someone who needed my protection. I froze. Like prey, like a rabbit. He couldn’t know how close to dangerous secrets he was treading. I barely dared to breathe. 

A small, grim smile that never reached his eyes tilted up the corners of his mouth.

I tried to keep my voice casual, to hide the thrill of fear that shot up my spine. “My primary interest in Holmes lies in the value of the intelligence he delivers to the British government. Now, can we please move on?” My face went pink and sweat trickled down my temples. I wanted to howl in fury. Threats to Sherlock were the only thing that could overset me like this.

Lestrade reached his hand out to the side of my face. I braced myself, not knowing what to expect. He swiped a dab of sweat from a spot just below my ear with his index finger, the looking right into my eyes, he brought his fingertip to his mouth and licked it.

I suppressed a shiver.

I wasn’t quite sure where our conversation had gone so far off track, but I had to put an end to this subject one way or another. “I must confess that I’m a bit disturbed, but overall not surprised by your unseemly interest in my sibling’s doings.

“I did hope this conversation would not have to be upleasant, but unfortunately, I find myself dragged down to your level. Tell me, would anyone really care if something happened to you? You don’t have any friends outside of work. You’re not close to any of your family. To be honest, it might even be more merciful to just have you killed now. 

"After all, I can see that your inability to be there when you’re needed, to cope with the guilt of not being able to take care of the people you care about, eats at you like a rot. The work and the loneliness will consume you until you are a husk. In a few decades, you will be remembered as a lonely old man dead before his time due to drink or heart failure.”

Lestrade flinched as though I’d dealt him a blow, “Are you predicting my future or yours? I can’t imagine someone like you having friends.”

I gave him an icy smile, “I don’t need friends. Leave Sherlock Holmes alone. I didn’t mind you following him about the city when it was a fool’s errand, but last week you nearly got him killed. One of his contacts noticed that an officer from the Met was following him. His cover was almost blown, which would have created a very inconvenient mess for me to clean up. Here is what’s going to happen. I will give you a file. It has enough evidence to convict the real murderer in the cases in which you suspect Sherlock. Unless you are a complete idiot, that should be enough to get you a nice promotion. Next, you are going to leave this office, say nothing of what transpired tonight, and never so much as think the name Sherlock Holmes again.”

Lestrade shifted forward, resting his arms on either side of my hips on the edge of the desk, effectively caging me in. He leaned forward until his cheek brushed mine, and whispered in my ear, “Everything I ever wanted can be mine, right? As long as I’m willing to do this one small thing? What a generous offer, but why is it that I feel as though I am in the Garden of Eden and you are the serpent whispering temptation into my ear? Why is it that I feel as though if I agree to this bargain, I will be giving up a piece of my soul?

“You had me kidnapped against my will and dragged to your office. You’ve made threats and offered me bribes. You act like everyone around you is just a little piece on your chessboard, but there is one thing about me you need to understand.”

Suddenly, before I knew what was happening, Lestrade grabbed the lapels of my coat, shoving them down over my shoulders, trapping my arms.

With one strong hand, he pushed me down until my back was flat against the desk. I kicked out, wriggling like a turtle stuck on its back. I froze when I heard the snick of a switchblade. I silently cursed my men for not bothering to frisk him when they brought him in.

Lestrade gave me a menacing smile. “I wouldn’t move if I were you.” I shivered as he stepped between my thighs. He touched the blade to fabric pulled taut by my spread legs. 

The threads parted easily before it. He slid the knife up until he sliced all the way through my waistband, careful not to cut my skin. Next, he sliced the buttons off my coat before starting on my waistcoat. My arms were now free, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. I was transfixed by that knife. At no moment had he expressed an intention to physically injure me. He was angry, but nowhere close to losing his temper.

He began speaking again, “You know what pisses me off the most; I know how you feel. I have a little sister so I understand your worry for your brother.” He paused and said more quietly, “I probably would have taken your deal too if you hadn’t fucked it all up.”

“And pray tell, how did I ‘fuck it all up’ as you so crudely put it?”

“You stripped away my dignity. You had me manhandled. I didn’t even have a chance to put on a shirt before I was dragged in here. You don’t see me as a person. You see me as a tool. People like you, people who see individuals as playthings rather than humans with lives and dignity, should not be in positions of power. You place far too low a value on human life. I may not be able to do much about that, but what I can do is make sure that I am never a tool in the hands of someone like you.”

His words should have hurt, but I was too transfixed by his knife to care at the moment. It was working its way through the buttons of my shirt. The cool chill of the metal through the thin fabric gave me gooseflesh. In spite of my efforts to control it, to think of anything else, I was developing an unfortunate physiological reaction to this…proximity.

Shame burned through me. I turned my face away from his. I did not want him to see my embarrassment.

Finished with the buttons, he pulled apart the two halves of my shirt and looked down at the exposed skin of my torso. My stomach quivered in an instinctive self-consciousness. I still retained a certain amount of insecurity about that part of my body after a childhood of being mocked for my weight.

His eyes widened when he saw the evidence of my interest peeking from the top of the waistband of my briefs. His lips twitched. He clicked the blade shut and tossed it away.

“So you're not a robot after all. Tell me, how does it feel to have your dignity stripped away? To have the layers that separate you from the world peeled back like the skin of an orange?”

For the first time in my life, I could not find a clever retort.

He fisted the loose ends of my shirt and pulled me into a sitting position. He smiled slightly. “You want me. You want my tongue in your mouth and my hand on your cock.”

The word escaped me as if they were dragged out, “Yes.” I whispered into his mouth. I despised him in that moment, despised that he reduced me to a quivering mass of nerves. I held myself above such gross urges of the flesh. I’d experimented when I was younger, but I’d found the satisfaction of slaking my physical needs wasn’t enough to make up for the acute mental discomfort I felt at making myself vulnerable to another person. Now, I wanted to be exposed, I wanted to be vulnerable--and not with someone appropriate. No, I’d chosen a rough lower class nobody who’d just performed an adolescent’s trick with his knife.

He kissed me, his mouth rough and tender all at the same time. His fingers threaded through my hair, caressing my scalp and lightly holding my head in place. His lips demanded a response, while his hands told me that it was alright if I pulled away. My mouth instinctively molded to his, my lips dancing in the hollows left by his pliant caress.

Of their own volition, my hands wrapped around his body, clinging to him for balance, pulling him closer. My exposed skin was cooled by the air conditioned chill of the office. I pressed my chest against his, seeking warmth. He gave a little moan. One of his hands wrapped itself around my back in a rough grip.

His tongue teased at the edges of my lips. I opened my mouth for him. He devoured it. He yanked my hips closer and ground them against his own erection. The sensation of his fabric-covered cock against mine sent a jolt of electricity right down my spine and into my groin. I spread my legs wider and pulled him closer. He replaced his cock with his hand, and pulled my cock out through the slit in my pants and stroked it.

He pushed my back flat against the desk and began whispering filthy things into my ear. “You want it, don’t you? You want my cock in that tight little arsehole of yours right here on your desk. You want me to suck you until you’re hard, until you’re begging for it. You want me to finger your sweet tight hole open, stretch you for my cock.”

He continued to stroke me with one hand. With the other, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet. A slick finger brushed against my arsehole. I spread my legs for him further while he grabbed a letter opener from my desk and cut away my pants. I was on my back, my cock and arsehole exposed to him. He could do what he pleased with me. 

I shivered with pleasure at the idea.

He teased at my hole with his fingers and whispered, “Tell me what you want me to do to you?”

Between the hand on my cock, his fingers, and my own shame, I could barely get out the words. “I want your fingers inside me. Then I want you to fuck me on this desk until you come.”

Immediately, one of Lestrade’s fingers breached my arse. He watched my face intently as he slowly fucked his finger into me. I felt a slight pressure as he slid the next one in. 

I forced my muscles to relax, to accept this delicious intrusion. I’d fucked myself with dildos and my fingers, but I had never done this with another person. It felt too personal, too much like a loss of control.

His hand left my cock for a moment. It returned slick with lube. I writhed on the desk, arching my back with need. Lestrade leaned down and sucked and nipped at the skin in the center of my chest. His abdomen pressed against my cock. “You are such a needy little thing aren’t you. Beg me for my cock. Tell me what you would do for it.”

Words streamed from my mouth. “I would get down on my knees and suck you. I would let you use my mouth like a hole. I would lick and suck every inch of you from your arsehole to the tip of your cock. I would let you do whatever you want to me, let you use me as you please.”

I felt a sharp pain in center of my chest. Lestrade had nipped me hard enough to leave red indentations where his teeth had been. I could tell from the pulsing ache of my skin that I would have a bruise in the morning.

His hands left my body and his torso pulled away. I watched as he pulled a condom out of his pocket, ripped the wrapper, and unrolled it over his cock. He opened another packet of lube and stroked himself a few times.

He returned his fingers to my arsehole, sliding two fingers into me, slowly fucking me for a few strokes before slipping out. Suddenly, I felt the blunt warmth of his erection pressing against my entrance. I took a deep breath and relaxed myself. He wasn’t any bigger than my largest dildo. I could handle his length. He eased into me slowly, giving me time to adjust. His hand moved over my cock in slow, gentle strokes. It felt so good. I felt so full. He continued to ease himself forward until he was fully seated inside me.

“You feel so good, so warm and slippery and tight.” He gently caressed my cheek with his fingertip.

I tensed at the caress. Roughness, I could handle, but my body went rigid with nerves at this unexpected affection. My sphincter clamped around his cock. Suddenly, pleasure transmuted into pain. I tried to relax my muscles, but the combination of pain and panic made my mind go blank. I desperately tried to hold myself still. I knew moving would only make it worse. I tried taking deep breaths, but I couldn’t slow my breathing. My heart raced. The blood drained from my cock as pain blotted out my arousal. I needed to get away, but I felt pinned by the cock shoved up my arse.

In that moment, soft fingers teased my hair. A rough low voice whispered in my ear, “It’s alright now. Just listen to the sound of my voice. Nod if you understand me.”

I nodded.

“Good, good. Now look at my face.”

I looked at his face, at those brown eyes grown soft with concern.

“Very good. Now breathe with me, alright?”

I watched him as he took slow, deep breaths. I mimicked him, focusing all of my concentration on his face. I had never before realized how attractive he was. Behind his common accent and rough manner was a kindness that I hadn’t noticed. Slowly, I began to relax. He eased his cock out of me as my body loosened around him.

Once he was free, he didn’t move away. Instead, he continued smoothing my hair with his fingers. “Are you alright now?”

I nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

My mouth answered without consulting my brain. “I’m sorry.” I said in a broken voice. “It’s just that I n—” my brain caught up with me. I continued in something closer to my usual tone. “This isn’t how I typically conduct my private affairs.”

Lestrade put a knee on the edge of the desk and levered himself up high enough to give me slow, sensual kiss. “I didn’t imagine it was.”

He abandoned my lips and began trailing kisses along my jawline. My cock perked up in interest. He murmured into my neck, “I know that fucking is off the table, so to speak.” I smiled in spite of myself. “But that doesn’t mean that tonight has to be a complete waste.”

He slid off the desk and kissed me in the center of my chest before moving down to the top of my ribcage. His hand slid lower, and soon I felt the warm pressure of his fingers as they lightly trailed over my cock.

I felt my mind spiraling, cascading to that dark needy place that I’d only just left. I pushed him away. His face crumpled with hurt.. As soon as it appeared, the look was quickly replaced by a sort of composed equanimity.

“Sorry. I’m afraid that my sanity has returned.” I looked down at myself. My chest was laid bare by the open flaps of my blazer and shirt. I realized that my tie was still around my neck. I looked like either a madman or an imbecile. I felt like both. A great rent made the fabric of my trousers and pants useless. I looked ridiculous. I glared up at Lestrade. 

He was probably laughing at me. When I met his eyes, I realized that he didn’t look like he wanted to laugh. He looked like he wanted to drag me to his lair and gobble me up.

I went to the wardrobe and pulled out a fresh suit that was identical the one I had on. Lestrade shook his head at me as I stripped off my ruined clothes and put on a fresh shirt. “You have an entire wardrobe full of clothes in your office. Do you live here or something?”

I gave him a wry smile. “Sometimes.” While I had been rummaging for clothes, he had disposed of the condom and fixed his trousers and pants. He looked about as respectable as a bloke without a shirt could.

Lestrade raised a brow, but said nothing. He watched as I put on my pants, trousers and shirt. He stepped forward when I started on the tie. “Allow me.”

He tied it. I tried to ignore the way my heart skipped a beat at his proximity. I noticed that the knot was not as precise as it would have been if I had tied it, but I restrained the urge to fix it. For some reason, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. This was stupid. This entire situation was stupid and ridiculous and I wanted nothing more than to escape and get away from him and his stupid kind eyes.

He kissed me when he finished the knot, his lips gentle, almost reverent on my mouth. His fingers lightly stroked at my upper arms. I jerked away. “Lestrade, I’m not interested in furthering the intimacy of our acquaintance.”

He pulled back, his lips pinched together in a hurt grimace. “Call me Greg. Look, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to do that. I’m worried about you. I wanted to make you feel good.”

“There’s nothing to be worried about.”

Lestrade’s jaw tightened. “We just had rough sex in your office. I don’t even understand everything that happened, but I could tell that you were not okay earlier and now you suddenly act like you’re fine. I don’t believe it. Come home with me. I’ll make you a cuppa and fix you a bite to eat. I won’t kiss you or so much as touch you if you don’t ask me to first. I’ll sleep on the sofa and let you take the bed. Just let me take care of you.”

I donned my vest and coat, arming myself for the next confrontation. “Greg, I appreciate your offer, but I’m really quite alright.”

He gave me a suspicious frown, “If you say so.”

I picked up the file and handed it to him. He gave me a long, bewildered look before pulling a wallet out of his pocket and handing me a business card. “Call me. I mean it, just to let me know that you’re alright.”

I gave a tight, perfunctory smile, but said nothing.

He shook his head a bit sadly. “I’ll look at the file, but I can’t make any promises about your brother. If he’s guilty, I’ll find him and bring him to justice.”

I rubbed my temples. “Very well, then. Although, I would appreciate it if you could at least quit following him around for a time.”

Lestrade’s mouth tightened. “No promises.” He hesitated and studied my face, “I just realized I don’t even know your name.”

I opened the door for him. “And sadly, you will have to go on not knowing. Goodbye, inspector.”

He gave me a long look and walked out the door. 

I moved about my office, hiding my ruined clothes in my briefcase and putting my desk back in order before stepping out the door.

My assistant gave me a surprised look. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes. I’ll be spending tonight at home.”

“But you never go home on Saturday night.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “Something has come up. Have one of my men bring the car around and call me if anything happens.”

She nodded and picked up the phone. I began walking. I had won, sort of, I supposed. I still wasn’t quite sure how I’d managed it, but I’d mostly gotten Greg to do what I wanted. So why did I feel as though I’d lost something precious? 


	8. Farewells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most heartfelt thanks to DemonicSymphony who was kind enough to beta this chapter at the last minute with a ridiculously short turnaround time. Her very helpful suggestions made this chapter about 10xs hotter and 1,000xs less confusing.

Sherlock’s Journal

**26.02.97**

Re: solution to sex problem

Gave into an impulse that almost ruined my plans last night. Also, had the ninth best orgasm of my life. I did have a slightly disturbing moment. Shortly after ejaculation, I felt a powerful urge to kiss John. I was able to resist, of course, but the entire incident was disconcerting. Fortunately, I was able to collect my equanimity quickly enough and salvage my plan to discreetly capture Lestrade. Note to self: seek out more information on voyeurism. 

**Later**

New information just discovered. Conversation held at 9:42 am GMT, on 26.02.97 recorded here in full for future extortion purposes. 

Heard a knock at the door. I was busy writing in here, so John got up to answer it. 

It was Lestrade. He had showered and changed clothes since last night. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. His still-wet hair was pulled back in a horse tail. I could tell from the haphazard strands that framed his face and the rumpled state of his clothing that he had dressed in a hurry. 

“What are you doing here?” John asked. 

A hesitant tone entered Greg’s voice, “Can I speak to Sherlock Holmes?” 

I knew, in the I have of knowing things from time to time, that he’d had sex with Mycroft only hours before. The tone of his voice, his presence, and the hasty shower confirmed my suspicions. I looked up from my journal and did my best to maintain a dignified air in spite of my glee at finally having caught my brother out. 

Per his usual, John just stood in the doorway like an idiot. 

“Oh for God’s sake, John, let him in. Let’s hear what he has to say.” 

John stood in the threshold and blinked at me a few times. “This man is trying to have you arrested for murder. Just last night he was dragged off by your brother’s men.” 

God, John could be so slow sometimes. “Yes, but that was before Mycroft shagged him.” 

_“What?”_ they both asked in horrified unison. 

“At some point, between when you ran off.” I pointed at Lestrade, “and when you arrived here this morning, you had sexual relations with my older brother. Your skills at seduction must be formidable. So far as I know, no one has ever been able to breach that fortress.” 

Lestrade gave me a puzzled look. 

“You know what people in the office call Mycroft behind his back? The Virgin.” 

He didn’t react. God, it was like talking to a sheep. 

“My brother is probably going to kill you—or rather have someone else kill you. He hates getting his hands dirty. I should probably turn on the phone ringer on in case he calls.” 

“Wait.” John interjected, “Sherlock, turn on the ringer right now. You’re not the only person who lives here.” 

He turned to Lestrade, “You had sex with Mycroft?” 

Lestrade’s gaze darted between us. “Um, yes?” 

I expected John to be angry, or at least hurt, but instead he looked impressed. “Really? How did that happen? Weren’t you under arrest or something?” He stiffened and went a bit pale. “Was it consensual?” 

Lestrade’s cheeks turned pink. “Very consensual, I think. It’s difficult to explain. Look, I just came here to see if Sherlock would give me his brother’s phone number.” 

I wrote down the number to his personal line and handed it to him. Mycroft was going to kill me, but it would be worth it. 

Lestrade glared at me. “What are you so happy about?” 

“My brother never makes a mistake—and when I say never, I mean never. He is probably losing his mind right now, and when you call, it will make everything a thousand times worse for him.” 

Lestrade carefully tucked the paper away and crossed his arms with annoyance. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. I’m tempted to arrest you right now and figure out what to charge you with later, except then I’d have to listen to your blather all the way to the police station. I’d appreciate it if you could be discrete about what’s happened. I can hardly imagine that your brother would want you blabbing about his sex life all over London.” 

“Don’t fret. Nothing you said will go further than this room.” 

Lestrade turned on his heel and headed for the door. 

“Good luck!” I called. 

John was in the kitchen fiddling with the tea things and shaking his head, “He must be either the bravest man I know or the stupidest.” 

“Or both.” I suggested. 

John sighed and went back to making tea. 

“You’re not jealous are you?” I asked. 

“No, not really. I mean, I am curious, especially now that I know he seduced Mycroft, and he is attractive and everything, but honestly, he’s not really my type.” 

I suddenly felt curious. “So, what is your type?” 

He grinned and looked right into my eyes. I felt something warm uncoil deep in my belly. 

“Dangerous. Dangerous is my type.” 

I turned away from his gaze, disconcerted by the effect it had on me. 

He returned to fixing the tea as though nothing had happened. 

I need to maintain my distance from him. I’m getting too attached. Yes, he is good at sex and handy with a gun, but I need to stay objective. He is a means to an end, not a lover, and certainly not a friend. 

Mycroft’s Journal

**26, February 1997**

I thought that after yesterday I would be done with this log, but sadly, no bad deed goes unpunished. Lestrade, or Greg, as he prefers to be called, rang me this afternoon. His voice over the line was a bit timid. 

“Hi.” 

“Hello.” I replied. 

“So, I was just calling to see how you were after last night. I know this is probably the last thing you wish to do, but I think—“ 

I cut him off before he said anything incriminating. Private line or no, I never knew when someone else could be listening.The only place that I could count on not to be bugged was my office. At least half of the things I did were illegal, and my superiors were sensible enough not to document the evidence. It was bad enough that I’d gone home the night before. Even that much of a step out of my usual routine would be enough to draw the attention of my ever-watchful superiors. 

“I have an opening in my schedule on Saturday night. I’ll send you the details by courier. Have a good day, Greg.” 

As soon as I hung up, I kicked myself for adding that last bit. Now he would think that I liked him.

**07, March 1997**

I deliberately arrived at the hotel room fifteen minutes late. I knew it was a childish power play, amateurish at best, but just a few days ago, Greg—I mean—Lestrade had rendered me powerless in a way that no one had ever done before. 

I opened the door to the hotel suite I had booked. It was more discrete than meeting in a restaurant, and the last thing I wanted was a record of him entering and leaving my flat. 

The first thing I noticed was the open window. A breeze rifled through the sweltering room. Greg stood next to it, trying to make the most of the cool air that trickled in. His blazer was draped across a chair and his white shirtsleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbow. There should have been nothing special about him. He was just an ordinary man, albeit an uncommonly handsome one, but all the same I felt my heartbeat quicken at the sight of him. Fear, I told myself. This was just fear. It couldn’t be attraction. 

A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. I wanted to lick it off of him. 

“Sorry.” He said with that ridiculous grin. “The last person who was in here must have turned the heat all the way up.” 

I gave him a curt nod and moved to the window, shutting and locking it before pulling the curtains closed. Greg opened his mouth to object. I put my index finger to my lips to silence him. He nodded. Next, I checked the phone, light fixtures, and outlets for bugs. I found one in an outlet. Really, only one bug? My superiors were getting sloppy. I disconnected it from the power source. I wasn’t stupid. They would know I had sabotaged it, but I was hoping that they wouldn’t be too bothered about me wanting to have a private conversation with an ordinary citizen of no particular import. 

I turned and gave him my smile that was not a smile, “Sorry for the delay. We can talk now.” 

Greg shook his head in wonderment, “Bugs. They had the fucking room bugged.” 

I shrugged, “That’s what happens when you demand to meet with the aide of a minor government official. Now tell me what you want.” 

Greg’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What do you mean?” 

I suppressed a sigh. As usual, I was going to have to do all the work. “You get my personal number from my brother then you call me after I made it clear that I had no interest in seeing you again. I can only assume that this is either some ham-handed effort to further our acquaintance or an attempt at blackmail.” 

Greg glared at me, “Did the idea that it was neither ever cross your mind? I called you because I was worried about your well-being. And no offense, but if Sherlock Holmes is your closest ally, you have some serious problems.” 

I lifted an eyebrow. “Why you do feel the need to concern yourself with my well-being? We met once for less than an hour. I’m barely more than a passing acquaintance to you.” 

“No, you’re more than that to me. We can’t just erase what we did. Do you want to know what happened when I asked your brother for your number? He took one look at me and started laughing. He already knew we’d had sex. He gave me your number and told me that according to office gossip, you were called The Virgin. This man is supposed to be the person closest to you and he fucking laughed at you. It was all I could do not to punch him. So, yes, I called you to make sure that you are okay. Look, Mycroft--” 

I flinched when he said my name. I suspected I had Sherlock to blame for that tidbit of information getting out. 

“I’m not interested in trying to coerce sex out of you. I’m not here for money or to wring any other advantage out of you. I just wanted to let you know that if you ever need a friend or someone to talk to about anything, you can always call me.” 

The earnestness in his face told me he was telling the truth. I hated him for it. I didn’t spend much time with honest men and as much as I liked Greg, I couldn’t start now. I was going to have to nip this in the bud. Resignation settled over me like a heavy blanket. “Greg, that is a very kind offer, but I feel that I must apprise you of some of the realities of the life of the aide to a minor government official. My flat is watched. It has as many bugs and cameras as the most secure government facility. My car is bugged. My phones are tapped. The only place I can go that is not bugged is my office. My work is so hectic that I sleep there five nights a week. 

“Almost every minute of my life is proscribed. If I stir even one finger away from my routine, if I talk to someone or go someplace new, the level of surveillance I am under will double. Anybody who becomes close to me is at risk of becoming a handle upon which some ill-intentioned person could find purchase. Why do you think I keep my brother so close? The only way I can keep him alive is to make sure that he represents a greater asset than he does a risk. I can’t offer you the same protection. If we were to have a relationship, be it friendship or something more intimate, it would only be a matter of time before you were killed by either my enemies or my allies.” 

Greg shook his head. A mixture of pity and horror filled his face, “How can you live like this?” 

I shrugged. He probably wouldn’t understand, but I tried to explain it anyway, “I have a gift. I can read someone’s character, where they’ve been, and what they do for a living as easily as you can read a book. The problem is that such a gift comes at a price. I have a thousand observations beating at my awareness every second of every day. My superiors understand that. They give me work that stimulates me, that keeps my mind busy without overloading it with sensory input. They insulate me from the things I can’t handle. They protect me. Without them, I don’t know if I’d still be alive.” 

Greg stepped toward me and wrapped his arms around me. He buried his nose in my neck. “It’s not right. You shouldn’t have to be alone.” 

Against my better judgment, I wrapped my arms around him and rested my chin on his shoulder. “There are a lot of things in the world that aren’t right and my trials are the least of them.” I pulled away and tugged my jacket straight. I knew better than anyone the amount of shit that existed in the world. Compared to that, my sorrows added up to nothing at all. 

“Now, is there anything else you wish to discuss?” I asked. 

“Thank you for the files. We have the suspect in custody and you’re right. It looks like I’ll be up for promotion at the end of the year.” 

I forced a smile and gave him an awkward pat on the arm. “Good. You deserve it. You’re a good man.” 

“Mycroft.” He looked at me with an intense gaze. Perhaps it was something about his stare or the way he said my name or the fact that I’d already revealed more to him than any other person I’d ever met in my life, but I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the need to kiss him. 

I cut off whatever he was going to say by stepping in close, taking his face in my hands and pressing my lips to his mouth. He reacted instantly. He gripped my elbows, pulling me tighter against him. Suddenly, I felt the muscled line of his pectorals pressed against my chest. His lips were firm and tender and every bit as intoxicating as they’d been that night. I felt my blood quicken with arousal. His hands caressed every inch of my back from my shoulder blades to my waist before working their way up again. Eventually, I was so breathless and addled with desire I could barely hold myself up. 

He pulled away for one breathless instant. “Stay.” He whispered into my lips. 

“Yes.” I whispered back. 

Together, we shuffled to the bed, unwilling to let each other go, lest we break the spell of sexual abandon that had overcome our reason. 

I felt the jolt in his body when the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. He sat down and scooted towards the headboard. I got on my knees and crawled after him. His eyes glittered in the dim light of the hotel room. His breath came rapidly. His hands shook as he worked at the buttons of my blazer. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked. 

“No,” I replied, “I’m sure it’s a terrible idea, but this is the last time I will ever see you, so we might as well make the most of it.”

His grip tightened on my blazer and he accidently ripped off one of the buttons. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” I replied. I was kissing him again, which was not helping his efforts to undress me. I finally took mercy on him and helped him with the buttons. My blazer was off in a trice. I flung it and my waistcoat across the room. 

I worked at the buttons of my shirt while he did the same with his own. 

I skinned out of my shirt and helped him with his before capturing his mouth in a kiss. I hadn’t had the opportunity to feel nearly enough of his bare chest against mine the week before and I planned to make up for it now. 

I grasped his thighs and eased his legs apart, pulling away from the kiss long enough to watch the front of his trousers go taut against his erection. 

“You owe me a new pair of trousers.” I whispered into his neck as I ground my cock against his. 

He moaned. His hands tugged at my hips, begging for more pressure. I gave it to him, pushing his legs wider as I ground my full length against him. 

Slowly, I kissed my way down his neck. I nibbled along his collarbone, leaving a trail of faint red marks before moving to the center of his chest. As I moved lower, I stroked my palm against his cock. I kissed him slowly, sensually where he’d left a love bite on me a week ago. Moving lower, I blew into his belly button, smiling to myself as he squirmed. I stroked the head of his cock and blew again. He let out a guttural moan. 

I kissed his lower belly at the waistline of his trousers, revelling in the quivering muscles of his abdomen as I tickled him with gentle kisses while driving him mad with desire with firm strokes of my hand. 

Eventually, I pressed my mouth on the tip of his still-clothed erection. His hand darted to his belt. I captured his wrists and held them flat against the mattress, rising over him until my cock once again made contact with his. 

I stared down into his eyes and said sternly, “Perhaps I didn’t explain it properly. You ruined a pair of my trousers last week. Expensive trousers. It only seems fair that I return the favor. You aren’t taking these off until you’ve come in them. Do you understand?” 

He moaned and nodded helplessly. I covered his mouth with mine, kissing him roughly. I shoved my hand down his pants and stroked his bare cock. It was rock hard and wet with precome. I stroked him a few times, until he was arching off the bed before I abruptly released him. 

I crawled up his body until I straddled his chest. “Undo my belt.” 

With shaking fingers, he complied. He unbuttoned my trousers and pulled my cock free without prompting. He stroked me lightly, taking in the sight of my erection. 

He met my eyes and then without ever shifting his gaze, leaned forward and licked the tip. Electricity shot from my cock to the base of my spine. 

Slowly, I pressed forward, easing my length between his hungry lips. Those soft brown eyes, made larger and softer by lust darted between my cock and my face. The sight of my erection disappearing into his mouth made me ache with need. Without realizing it, I pushed harder into him until my cock brushed against the back of his throat. I pulled away, embarrassed. I didn’t want to make him gag, but his hands tugged at my hips, urging me forward. I slowly fucked his mouth, moving to the rhythm of his hands. 

He took me deeper with every stroke. I felt his throat open for me. He held me inside for a second and swallowed around me before releasing my hips. The shock of those muscles pressing against the head of my cock sent another jolt of pleasure coursing through my body. I pulled back, allowing him a chance to take a breath before giving in to the insistent tugging on my hips. He took me in that way again, and again, until I was properly fucking his mouth. For all that I tried to move slowly and gently, conscious of his vulnerable position, my hips began to thrust with a mind of their own. I pulled out when I felt a slight pressure of his thumbs pushing me away. 

“Are you alright?” I asked, bending and lightly brushing my lips against his. 

He nodded.

Part of me yearned to stay there, to spend my seed into that wet heat, but I had other plans. I slid backward until I knelt over his still-clothed thighs. Whipping my hand over my spit slick cock, I stroked myself until I came all over the front of his trousers. Greg jolted upright and swore half-heartedly. 

“Damn you, Mycroft. You just ruined my best trousers.” 

“I’ll buy you another pair.” 

I shoved my hand down front of his pants and covered his mouth with mine. The head of his cock was slick with precome. The moisture on my still-wet palm provided all of the lubrication he needed. He came with a hoarse whimper, jerking against me as wet warmth soaked his pants and trousers. 

I gave him a long, slow kiss before flopping onto my back, falling into a light doze as a combination of lassitude from my orgasm and sleep deprivation overtook me. 

Greg started laughing first. 

I cracked an eyelid. An involuntary chortle burst out of me when I met his eyes. I tried to choke it back, but it was too late. Last week, something inside me had cracked. My emotions had escaped and they were refusing to return to where they belonged. 

I looked down our bodies. We did look a bit ridiculous. Both of us were shirtless and still in our trousers. We even still had our shoes on. My cock spilled from the front of my trousers, flaccid and wormlike after its recent activity. 

Greg turned on his side and gave me a quick, cheeky peck on the mouth. 

“We both look like utter pillocks.” 

“Hm.” I was more interested in trying to recapture his lips than in his observations. 

“Mycroft.” 

I raised one brow. 

“My lap is a wet puddle of congealing spunk. If you don’t mind, I’m going to tidy up a bit.” 

I nodded. 

He gave me one of his shy-but-not-really-shy grins. “I could use some help if you are interested.” 

Suddenly, my lethargy evaporated. I sat up and began shedding trousers, pants, shoes and socks. 

Greg shed his own clothing. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” 

I gave his bare arse a light swat in retaliation, and suppressed another laugh at his outraged swearing as I chased him into the shower. 

We emerged much later, cleaner and more familiar with each other’s bodies. Greg marveled over my freckles and did his best to kiss every one. I, in turn was fascinated by the fine lines that formed in the corners of his eyes when he smiled. They shouldn’t have been beautiful, but they were. 

We lay on our sides naked on top of the sheets. The room was still sweltering. I reached out and toyed with Greg’s hair. The strands whispered against my skin, damp and soft. I wrapped a tendril around my index finger and tugged. He plucked a hair from my own head in retaliation. 

I raised a brow. “I’d rather you didn’t do that. I don’t have quite as much to spare as you.” I ran a hand over my short hair. It had started to thin slightly on top, not so much that anyone but myself and my barber noticed, but still, I’d rather not accelerate the process. 

Greg gave me one of his irresistible grins and with deliberate cheekiness, plucked a hair from my temple. 

I rose on my knees, trying to scowl at him, but my mouth betrayed me by breaking into a smile, “That’s enough, ingrate.” 

I pushed him onto his back, but he immediately wriggled out from under me, and before I quite knew what was happening, had me pinned on my stomach. His forearm pressed against the back of my neck, forcing my face into the pillow, while his other arm held my wrists immobile in the middle of my spine. I tried to squirm loose, but the grip on my wrists shifted, forcing my arms into an awkward, almost painful position. I gasped with arousal. The beginnings of an erection once again thickened my depleted cock. 

I fidgeted against the mattress, trying to find a more comfortable position. Greg shifted behind me. Lips ghosted against my ear. “Like that, don’t you?” 

I wasn’t sure how our playful teasing had transmuted to _this_ , but I didn’t want it to stop. I nodded. 

“You like being at my mercy, being forced to take what I give you.” 

I arched my back, raising my arse a few inches higher. 

He chuckled, only this time it was dark and low and it made a chill of pleasure slide down my spine. “Don’t move.” 

He released me and got up off the bed to dig through his discarded clothing. “Glad I didn’t have time to clear out my wallet this week. 

I grunted into the pillow in response, a mixture of nerves and excitement running through me. How could I be so at ease with him one moment, and then mindless with lust the next? He climbed back onto the bed and knelt beside me. He planted one hand between my shoulder blades, pressing my chest down into the mattress, and trailed a finger from the other hand down my spine, bumping over the knobs of my vertebrae. I tried to writhe free as his hand slid lower, tickling me. He paused for a second at my coccyx before continuing down the cleft of my arse until he reached my opening. I heard the sound of ripping foil and soon felt the slippery chill of lube against my arsehole. 

“Last time I didn’t have a chance to do this properly, but this time around I’m going to get you nice and open for me.” 

He slid one stiff finger into my arse, working it in slowly. I suppressed the instinct to clench around him when his thick knuckle pressed its way through my entrance. He fucked me with his finger soft and slow. He took his hand from between my shoulder blades and leaned up to kiss me there instead. He kissed his way up my spine to my neck, nibbling and sucking not quite hard enough to leave a love bite. I was so distracted by his lips and teeth against my skin that I barely noticed when a second finger joined the first. He nibbled his way up to my earlobe and gently tugged it between his teeth as he slid a third finger inside me. I gasped and pushed my hips onto his fingers. He fucked them into me more vigorously, now brushing against my prostate with every stroke. 

I barely suppressed a whimper. “Fuck me.” I gritted out. “Fuck me right now.” 

His voice sounded as though it were a great distance away. “If you want me to fuck you, you’ll have to beg me for it.” 

“Please, please I will do anything. Just please, I need your cock inside me.” 

His fingers withdrew, and once again I heard the metallic crinkle of ripping foil. I rose to all fours, need and anticipation roiling deep in my stomach. I palmed my cock. Greg slapped my hand away. 

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” 

“No.” I replied. 

His hand found its way between my shoulder blades again, immobilizing my chest against the mattress while my arse remained high in the air. I heard the sound of latex unrolling over taut skin and then I felt the blunt heat of Greg’s hard cock pressing against my arsehole. I moaned and shifted ever so slightly back. I needed it inside me. I needed to be filled by that thick slippery heat. His hips eased forward and I felt his length pressing against my entrance. A pressure that was almost pain bloomed against my sensitized nerves, and then the head of his cock was all the way inside me. Slowly, giving me time to adjust, he slid the rest of the way home, one hand keeping my chest pinned to the mattress, while the other caressed my arse, thigh, and waist. He held still for a long moment once he was fully seated inside me. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Good. Very good.” 

“Good.” I could hear the smile in his voice. 

He slid out a fraction of an inch, moving with a slow care that had me aching for more. 

“I can take more. You don’t need to be so gentle.” 

“Would you prefer I be rough?” he asked, his voice strained with lust. 

“Yes. If that’s alright with you.” 

He pulled out a bit further and pushed into me with slightly more force. 

“Like this?” 

I gasped. 

His hand tangled in my hair, yanking my head back until I could barely breathe. His hips met mine with a wet slap of sweaty flesh. 

“Like this?” 

A moan escaped from my lips, “Yes.” 

He drew almost all the way out and thrust into me brutally. I reveled in the delicious burn as my body was forced to open against his onslaught. 

Greg took me with a relentless rhythm. I shifted under him, desperate for friction against my cock, but too afraid that he would stop if I touched myself. Knowing exactly what I needed, he wrapped his hand around my erection. I sobbed in relief and hunger and overstimulation as he stroked me with the same rough rhythm as the cock that filled me. The area just behind my balls tingled in warning. I closed my eyes, trying to stave off the inevitable, but the twin sensations of Greg’s hand working my erection and his cock inside my arse were too much, and I came, spending desperately into the sheets. 

He thrust into me once, twice more before finding his own release. He collapsed on top of me like a puppet with its strings cut, his cock still twitching and pulsing inside me. He slid off my body and rolled me onto my side with gentle hands. His mouth was on mine, kissing me tenderly, worshipfully. I was too spent to do anything more than move my lips weakly against his. Eventually he got up and disappeared into the loo. I lay still, a bewildering mixture of giddiness and exhaustion keeping me pinned to the mattress. Greg returned with a warm, damp towel. He swabbed at my face and hair before moving lower, to the more tender parts of my anatomy. 

When he was done, he gently guided me to my feet and eased me into the shower, washing my hair and scrubbing me clean. I wanted to protest. I liked the scent of his sweat against my skin, but I understood the practicality of it. Once I was clean and dry, he guided me back to the bedroom. 

I was relieved when he made no move to leave. If he had, I would have been forced to beg him to stay, and my dignity had taken enough blows for one night. As it was, I felt the last of the tension drain from my body when he crawled into bed and pulled me down beside him. I lay awake, cataloguing the sight of his fingers on my bare stomach. They looked gray in the dim light, the few dark hairs that sprouted from his knuckles were almost invisible. Next, I moved onto smell. I turned my head, burying my face in the pillow and breathing in hints of sweat, cologne, soap, and shampoo. Both of our scents had mixed together as we’d rolled and sweated against the sheets. Last I gave myself up to sensation. It was a sense that I rarely let myself pay attention to. It was too real. It stirred up too many of the emotions that I had to keep buried if I expected to survive my job. I systematically logged every centimeter of contact, noting the parts of him that were tacky with sweat, the individual hairs, the soft and rough patches of his skin, hard muscle, harder bone, and softer flesh. All of it was scrutinized and squirreled away into the corners of my mind. I started with the tops of his feet pressed against my heels and ended with his breath on the nape of my neck. 

I did not sleep that night. I determined that my time was best spent squeezing every drop of joy out of my very last encounter with the man I loved. Because as futile and hopelessly naïve as it was, I’d fallen in love with him. A cynical soul would say that it was just hormones or loneliness, but I knew better. I didn’t need a week or a month or a year with Greg to know _him_ , to know that there was no one else for me. 

We made love one last time before the sun came up. I was too sore to properly enjoy it, and Greg had run out of lube, but I was still open from our earlier lovemaking and knowing it was our last time together lent us a desperation that allowed us to overcome any reservations about feeling discomfort. As it was, he held me tight, his breath hot against my ear as he spent into me before sliding down my body and bringing me off with his mouth. 

We held each other for a long time after that, but eventually, the false dawn filtered through the curtains. I got up and showered to rid myself of the evidence of the night’s activities before picking my clothes up from the floor. There would be no helping the fact that I would be seen in public in yesterday’s suit. I could only hope that all of the creases would not be visible on the grainy footage from the cctv cameras. 

As I put on first my pants, then trousers and shirt, I felt my emotional armor reassert itself. The muscles in my face resettled into their usual imperious contours. My mouth now more easily twisted into a sneer than in a smile. My spine stiffened. The tension that had briefly been melted by my detective returned as I buttoned my waistcoat. 

Greg had fewer layers so he finished dressing while I wrestled with my cufflinks. He took my wrist and did first one then other. He picked up my blazer, twitched it straight then guided my arms into the sleeves. Finally, I was dressed. I cleared my throat. My voice was too soft for my liking. “You should go now. It is almost light out.” 

Greg’s voice was husky with emotion. “I’m never going to see you again, am I?” 

“If you try to contact me, if the truth is known, both of us will be at risk. If my enemies find out about you, they will try to use you against me. We can never meet again. You need to forget about me.” 

Greg pulled me tight in a crushing kiss. “I will never forget about you.” 

In that moment I made an unwelcome deduction. Greg was in love with me too. I could see it in the intensity of his eyes which were so full of unspoken emotion a child could read them. I could feel it in the hunger of his lips and the tightness of his arms around me. I tried and failed to steel myself against the onslaught of joy and sorrow that assailed me. I could not allow his emotions to distract me from my goals. He was ordinary. What he felt was most likely a hormone-induced infatuation, further fueled by the forbidden nature of our relationship. After all, it was inevitable that people always wanted what they couldn’t have. 

Eventually, he pulled away and gave me one last long, shattering look. Then he turned away and walked out of the room. The door to the hotel room clicked shut in his wake with a devastating finality. 

I sat on the bed and waited. It would be best if we were not seen walking down the same street at too close an interval.


	9. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out what his vision means. Sherlock meets Richard Brook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content/Trigger Warnings: Mention of child death, references to drug use, mention of possible suicide.

John’s Journal

**27 March 1997**

Sorry for not writing sooner, but things here have been busy. I now join Sherlock on his missions for Mycroft. Mostly they’re boring. There is a lot of sitting in restaurants and standing about in seedy alleyways while Sherlock waits for an informant to drop off a briefcase or dufflebag or dog-eared file. One time a sniper took potshots at us, but I couldn’t get a clear shot at him, so we just ran. I haven’t used my gun since the first night. I try to tell myself that’s a good thing. 

London is a much smaller world than I thought. Just today, I found out that Molly’s boyfriend, Rich lives downstairs. Well, he doesn’t live here full time. He only stays here when his show is filming because otherwise it would be a long commute to his house outside of London. 

I saw him as I was coming home from work today and we got to chatting. He’s a presenter for a children’s educational programme. I like him. He’s very shy, but also very kind. I can see why Molly fancies him. Anyway, I’ve invited him over for supper. I think his calm presence will do both Sherlock and I some good. 

The real reason that I'm writing is that I finally got around to calling my grandad today. I told him about what I’d heard at Irene’s party regarding the experiments. Of course he already knew. He didn’t think much would come of it. People were always trying to prove the existence of ghosts, yetties, the Loch Ness Monster, and ESP, and so far all they’d come up with was some grainy video footage. With any luck, it would eventually come out that the latest experiment data had been fudged or there’d been some error made in the calculations and this study would be discredited like all the rest. In the meantime though, it was best to lay low. 

I also told him about my vision of Sherlock’s death and my second vision of him alive ten years later. 

“How is that possible? Have you ever seen anything like that?” I asked. 

His voice went strange and choked. “Yes, once.” 

“Do you know what it could be?” 

“You said he had a brother. Could that be the person you saw?” 

“I don’t know. I’ve never met him, but Sherlock has a very distinctive look. I can’t believe he would have a doppelganger.” 

His breath hitched. My heart skipped a beat. 

“Grandad? Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine, son. I just want you to know that I love you, and that I’m very proud of you.” 

“Why do you say that? Tell me about this other person.” 

“It was your uncle, the one you were named for. He saw his daughter die young. We all saw it, all knew that we weren’t meant to have her for very long. But he saw other visions of a teenage girl who looked almost exactly like her at his wife’s deathbed. He swore that it was her, but none of us believed it. 

“She died in a car accident. He was driving. His wife was riding in the passenger seat. She was still only a few years old so his wife had her on her lap. There was a car stopped in the middle of the road. It was night and it didn’t have its lights on. Jackie swerved to avoid it and hit a tree instead. 

“She was thrown from the car. Those were the days before seatbelts, so I'm sure you can imagine. I remember from the vision I saw of her death that it was instantaneous. Her skull was--all that was left was--” he took a gulping breath, “No father should have to see that happen to their child." 

"They never found the body. After that night, it was like Jackie and his wife forgot that they had ever had a child at all. They had no recollection of her. They barely grieved, not like I would grieve if something happened to your mum before my time. If it weren't for the photos, I would have forgotten her too. It was as though there was something inside my head that wanted to keep me from remembering. 

"I didn't think about little Eileen for years, until your mum--" 

"Wait," I interrupted, "are you talking about Aunt Eileen?" 

"Yes." 

"But you said she was a distant relative." 

"She's more closely related than you thought, but it doesn't matter. Anyway, years later, I found her in an institution. By that time, they'd thoroughly tortured her and pumped her full of drugs. She was barely alive. I got her out of there, took her home. My wife and I got her mostly better and took her to meet her father. She didn't recognize him at all, nor he her. She got the chance to say her final goodbye to her mother, but they might as well have been strangers for all they cared about each other. I never could get my brother to believe that she was his child, so my wife and I raised her as our daughter and told people that she was the child of a distant cousin. 

"I don't know if it was the years in the institution, or her death in the wreck, but there was a darkness, a sense of melancholy about her that I could never quite put my finger on. She started getting in trouble in secondary school and never really stopped. You know how she is. She’s a fighter, but it’s very difficult to defeat something that lives inside you own head." 

I knew what he was talking about. On the few occasions I’d seen Aunt Eileen, she’d had a frenetic energy about her, as though if she stopped for so much as a second, the world would collapse. She was always gaunt and had large dark circles under her eyes because she didn’t dare slow down to eat or sleep until she was faint with hunger or exhaustion. For all that she told Grandad she was clean, I suspected she still used stimulants to stretch the limits of what her body could take. I’d always assumed her behavior was a result of her history of institutionalization, but it was entirely possible that her troubles ran deeper than that. 

“What about Uncle Jackie?” I asked. He’d died before I was born, and beyond a few words here and there, Grandad never mentioned him. 

"Died while cleaning his gun, at least that's what the coroner said. He always was a clever man, though, so I’ve always wondered whether that is what truly happened. He'd never been the same since the accident. He struggled with alcoholism and depression until the day he died." 

I felt my stomach drop as the everything I understood about the world realigned. I knew that the things my family saw were out of the ordinary, even for the more sensitive members of society, but making something happen, bringing someone back from death was quite beyond anything I’d ever heard of. 

“You think I can bring someone back from the dead?” I asked, shock tightening my voice until it was little more than a whisper. 

“If you are interpreting your vision correctly, it’s less a matter of ‘can you do it,’ and more a matter of ‘how soon.’” 

“But I haven’t the foggiest idea of how to bring someone back from the dead.” 

“Neither did your uncle, but that didn’t stop him.” 

"But if it happens for me like it did for Aunt Eileen. If I bring Sherlock back, then we'll both become strangers to each other, broken men on a path to self-destruction. That's horrifying. I'd rather die." 

“John.” Grandad’s voice cracked, “There are some things in life you can’t change. The only thing you can do is make the best of the present you're given.” 

I bridled against that tired old sentiment. Never before had it been more useless, "But why does it work that way? What is the point of bringing someone back if you just wind up ruining both of your lives?" 

"Your reasons will probably make sense to you when the time comes. Don't worry about it. There's nothing you can do to prevent it, so just enjoy your life now." 

"Why couldn’t it be something less horrible?" 

Grandad sighed. “I don’t know, but my guess is that an act like bringing someone back from death is a violation of the laws of physics as we know them. Toying with the forces of nature is like trying to defuse an atomic bomb with only a hammer and an instruction manual written in Chinese. It is bound to blow up in your face. The only question is what form does the explosion take?” 

I leaned my head against the wall. “I could decide not to do it.” I replied weakly. 

"You could," he replied, but I knew he was just humoring me. 

I gently thumped my head against the wall I’d been leaning on. This was not what I wanted to hear. Sherlock was going to die. I was going to save him, and we were both going to wind up, what? Dead again, just more slowly and painfully this time around? 

Sherlock’s Journal

**27.03.97**

The subject has brought home a new friend. His name is Richard Brook.

I don't like him. On the surface, he is an average man. His manner is perhaps a bit more engaging than most, but nothing extraordinary. It was only when I looked at him more closely that I noticed that there was something dark and hungry living behind his eyes.

The two of them are in the kitchen, cooking pasta. Rich is relating a tedious story about one of John’s friends. I am currently suppressing the urge to stab him with a fork. Rich is far too adept at insinuating himself into people’s lives. He appears harmless enough with his short stature and worm-pale skin, but he is dangerous, not in the same way that Mycroft and I are, but he is sufficiently threatening that I wouldn’t complain if my brother had him discreetly taken care of. I won’t say anything to Mycroft yet. For now, I’ll just watch him. Even though I don’t trust Rich, I must confess that I find myself curious to see what he is up to. 

**30.03.97**

Had a meeting with Mycroft last night. He looked more wretched than usual. He’d gained a few pounds since I’d last seen him and his forehead sported a few faint red spots that signaled an impending breakout, no doubt caused by a combination of stress and the excessive ingestion of refined sugars. Not that I cared.

He looked me over. One side of his mouth quirked up, which was about as close to a real smile as he ever came. 

“You look well.” 

I sat in the chair opposite his desk, leaning back and propping my feet up on the antique rosewood top. 

“You don’t. Tell me, do I need to assassinate Inspector Lestrade?” 

He sighed, “As I was the one who ended it, if anyone needs assassinating, it would be me.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” 

“I don’t know. Isn’t that the sort of thing people say in these situations?” 

He gave a humorless laugh. 

“Save the empty platitudes for someone who cares. Now, please tell me that the reason you look so much better than usual is that you are abandoning your theory about a series of murders by suicide and are ready to return to civilization.” 

“Sorry again.” 

“It’s the medical student, isn’t it?” 

“What do you care?” 

“I don’t. I think it’s good that you’ve made a friend. He seems like a solid, dependable bloke. You could certainly do worse.” 

A long silence fell as I tried to formulate a response. 

Finally, I asked, “Are you happy, Mycroft?” 

“No. Are you?” 

I surprised myself by answering honestly, “Sometimes I think I’m almost happy.” 

The memory of the boneless way John had collapsed against me after he’d spent himself against my thigh flashed unbidden through my mind. 

I changed the subject, hoping that a shift in conversation would banish him from my thoughts.

“Tell me about my latest assignment. Please say that it’s not going to be as boring as the last one.”

**Later**

I had the strangest encounter with Richard Brook when I arrived home today. I'd gone ahead and completed Mycroft's assignment. It had been simple enough to achieve without John's assistance, though I anticipated being on the receiving end of a brisk scolding when he saw the scrapes on my knuckles.

Rich was waiting for me at the door to my flat. I ignored him, wrestling with my umbrella, trying to be quiet so as not to wake John.

One of the spokes caught on my sleeve. Before I could free it, Rich stepped in, sliding the flexible metal from the fold of fabric, allowing it to spring into place. While my hands were still busy with the umbrella, he stepped forward and cool and light as a drop of rain, brushed his lips against mine. A coppery taste like blood invaded my mouth. For a second his eyes, so close to mine loomed like gaping maws. Then he grinned at me and was gone. It was a long time before my hands stopped shaking enough that I could open the door.

**07.04.97**

John is becoming a problem. All I can seem to do anymore is think about him. Images of him pop into my head at the oddest times. I’ll be making tea or mixing a solution of hydrochloric acid and water and I’ll suddenly be beset by the memory of the way John’s face melted with blitzed relaxation when he’d come. 

Next thing I know, I’m completely distracted and every useful thought has flown out of my mind.  
Today, I looked at his hands and wondered how they would feel tangled in my hair as I took him in my mouth. Would they be gentle, lax as he focused his entire being on sensation, or would they be rough, driving me onto him as he ruthlessly pursued sexual oblivion? I couldn’t decide which I fancied more.

This obsession of mine has grown tiresome. I’ve considered scrapping the experiment entirely and finding a new subject. At this point, my objectivity has eroded to nothing, so there’s no chance of me coming away with any meaningful results. On the other hand, John is useful for helping me with my brother’s work, and this unhealthy attachment is entirely on my side, so I suppose it would be unfair to toss him out of the flat. Ugh, since when did I care about fairness? 

In news that is actually relevant to things that matter, all of my experiments are going abominably. My search for the serial murderer by suicide is yielding no new leads. John, who was supposed to serve as my bait, is showing no more self-destructive tendencies than usual. I’m making no progress with my ginger hair dye formulation, and I haven’t added a new entry to my tobacco ash encyclopedia in over a month. 

The only bright spot is Irina Adler. My gut tells me that she knows something important. And I have an appointment with her next week. 

**14.04.97**

Given the resources at my disposal, I had a surprisingly difficult time hunting down Irina. It wasn't until I started looking for her under the anglicized version of her name, Irene, that I ran into some luck. 

Her profession was not a surprise to me, though I thought it was a bit of a risky undertaking for someone who, according to Mycroft’s files, was still in process of getting her citizenship. However, from the brief encounter I'd had with her, she'd seemed like a reasonable person. She’d had enough sense to know from the minute I’d arrived at her party that I was up to no good. 

I checked into the hotel under the false name I'd given her in our brief phone exchange, and made my way up to the room. I wasn't planning to use her professional services. I was far more interested in what she had to say than in initiating any sort of physical transaction. 

I arrived at the room first. I took off my jacket and settled in. Before long, I heard a knock at the door and answered. Her face froze for a second at the sight of me, but she quickly forced it into a disdainful mask. 

"Aren't you a clever lad." she said archly, entering the room and closing the door behind her with a firm snick. 

I put my hands up in what I hoped was a non-threatening gesture. "Rest assured, I will keep my cleverness to myself." 

She stepped a fraction too close and ran a blood-red fingernail over my cheekbone. "That was never a question." Warmth bloomed on my cheek from the light contact, and I fought to keep the faint frisson of lust sparking through my veins from reaching my face. 

The corners of her eyes crinkled in satisfaction. 

"I'm not interested in your professional services. I came here because I have some questions." 

The flirtatious warmth drained from her, "My time is not free." 

I pulled a wad of cash out of my pocket, "I'm ready to pay for it." 

She took the cash, straightened the bills and counted them with cool efficiency, "This will buy you an hour. What is it you want to know?" 

"You're like me." 

"Yes." 

"How does it work for you?" 

“How does it work for _you?_ ” 

“I’m the one paying for information.” It was all I could to to keep from gritting my teeth in irritation. Why couldn’t anybody ever cooperate? 

“You know how much talking about this subject could cost me. All I’m asking for is a little insurance.” 

“Fine. You first.” 

"Very well. I know what people want. When I touch someone's skin, I can see their desires as clear as life on the backs of my eyelids." 

"That must be a burdensome gift." 

She shrugged, "It got me out of Russia, and from under the thumb of some very bad people. A certain very grateful immigration official is going to push my citizenship through in a few months rather than a few years. It’s a burden, but it's also saved my life. What about you? What is your gift?" 

My stomach clenched. This wasn’t something I talked about. Ever. "I know things." 

"You know things?" She raised a sceptical eyebrow. 

"I look at people and I know things. It's hard to explain. When I first met you, I knew that you were like me, that you only started seeing Sally because you were new to this country, jobless and broke. You were going home with strangers in clubs because it was the only way you knew to get a warm bed and a free meal. One night you went home with her. She was the first person you ever met who made you feel safe.” 

Her eyes widened in shock. She put a hand up as if to ward off a blow. 

"I’m not a stalker. I haven’t tried digging into your past. I saw you with Sally the night I met you and I just knew." 

She lowered her hand and glared at me. This was the reason I never discussed the things I knew. Telling people their secrets never failed to make them angry. For the most part, I didn’t much care about making people angry. I did that all the time without any intuitive intervention. However, while anger could be a useful tool in emotional manipulation, the blend of anger, suspicion, and defensiveness revealed by Irina’s clenched fists would likely prove to be counterproductive to our current discussion. 

I tried to change the subject, "What did you see when you touched my cheek earlier." 

"Longing for connection. You hate being alone.” 

I snorted. 

She held my eyes in a level gaze. I looked away first. 

Now that we were both naked, it was time to get down to business. 

“What is it you really want to know?” she asked. 

“Do you think it’s possible that someone who’s like us, a sensitive, could control minds?” 

“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s possible.” 

I ran my hand through my hair, wincing when my fingers snagged on a tangle. I was going to have to tell her the truth and hope for the best. 

“I think someone is killing people and using his gift to cover up his tracks.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Suicides.” 

“Suicides?” 

“Over the past five years, there have been 31 suicides within a three block radius of each other, 23 of which share suspiciously similar characteristics.” 

Irina’s posture straightened. Her eyes, which had been narrow with suspicion widened in interest. 

I continued my story, “The victims all have few friends, few close blood relations, and no history of psychological conditions that would lead to suicide. Then, within the space of a few weeks, they have nightmares and insomnia, experience hallucinations until finally, they’re driven to kill themselves. The epicenter is this dire block of flats in a dreadful neighborhood. It’s had 10 suicides in the past five years, 9 of which I believe are linked. I’m convinced that it’s murder by suicide, but I have no evidence, nothing to link the victims to a single culprit.” 

“This is all very fascinating, but why are you asking me? This is hardly my area of expertise.” 

“Call it a hunch. Do you think someone with gifts similar to ours could be using his skills to drive his victims to madness and then kill them?” 

“Probably not. I’m not saying that your theory isn’t possible, however it is inconsistent with what I know of people with our gifts. I’ve never heard of anyone who can actually _do_ anything with it. I’ve only heard of people who can perceive things outside the scope of normal human senses.” 

I nodded, “That would be consistent with what I’ve heard, but it’s not like anyone knows how or why it works.” 

“My mind goes to Plato whenever I think on these things.” 

“Who's Plato?” 

Irene glared at me. “What English public schoolboy hasn’t heard of Plato?” 

“If I’ve ever heard of him, I’ve obviously forgotten, so please explain.” 

“Plato is an ancient Greek philosopher who wrote a parable called “The Allegory of the Cave.” In the bit that is relevant to our circumstances, he describes a hypothetical situation in which a group of men are chained up in a cave in such a way that all they can ever see are shadows on the wall. He posited that if the shadows were the only things the men ever saw, then they would believe that reality was the shadows. For example, if they only ever saw the shadow of a book or an urn or another man, they would believe that the shadow was the real object. If one man were to be unchained and taken outside the cave to see what the world was really like, it would be painful and difficult to comprehend. The man would initially focus trying to understand the things that were already familiar like the shadows before raising his eyes to things that he had no concept of, like the sun or the stars.” 

“So we’re the men who have been outside the cave in this parable?” I thought over Irina’s words. There was a tidiness to the idea that appealed to me. 

She nodded. 

“What if, while the rest of us were staring at shadows, one person looked into the sun? What kind of power could someone with that extra knowledge exert over the rest of us?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I do agree with what you’re saying. There are so many different kinds of forces in the universe: electromagnetic energy, radio waves, gamma rays and a myriad of other things that we don’t yet even have the technology to conceive of yet. These things exist, but we don’t see, hear, or smell them. At best we probably only perceive one tenth of one percent of the energies and forces around us. I understand that the two of us are people who have left the cave, but what I don’t understand is why our gifts manifest in such different ways.” 

“I’m not sure, but my guess would be that our brains are not properly equipped to handle the input we are receiving, so it translates the information the best way it knows how. You have the ego of a god, so your brain gives you prophesies delivered from on high. I like to be in control, so my mind gives me the key to everyone’s weakness.” 

“So not only are we the unlucky few who have managed to escape the cave, but we are all denizens of the Tower of Babel, each translating our perceptions into a different language.” 

“I like to think of it as a blessing.” Irina glanced out the window. One of her hands made a small, involuntary gesture, as though it were trying to push something away. 

Something was wrong. I could almost smell the fear wafting off of her. I walked to the window and looked outside. A familiar figure crossed the street. Richard Brook. 

"What's Richard Brook doing here?" I asked, my voice sharp. 

"He wanted to meet you." she replied, her voice distant and cool in spite of the tension radiating from her body. 

"How do you know him?" 

"He helped me out of a very tight spot once. I owe him everything." 

"You shouldn’t trust him." 

"He's not so bad." 

"You don’t know that.” I replied. I tried to think of something more to say, but the only evidence I had against him was my screaming instincts. 

I paced the room nervously. I could have escaped, slipped out of the window and down the fire escape, but I was curious. Besides, there were too many witnesses at the hotel. If Rich had a scrap of sense, he wouldn't try anything here. 

Within minutes, I heard a knock at the door. Irina opened it. "Rich, what a pleasure." 

"Irina." He inclined his head in greeting, but his eyes were fixed on mine, intent, burning like black coals. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. 

"Rich," I replied curtly. 

He turned his attention back to Irina. He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, "Walk over to the bed, lie down on it, and fall asleep. I will tell you when you can wake up." 

Her body went strangely limp. Moving slowly, as though the air were toffee, she walked to the bed, lay down, and closed her eyes. 

My mind sputtered to a stop, processing this new information. Richard had just forced Irina to fall asleep using his mind. Terror turned my veins to ice. Losing control of my mind was my greatest fear, but I was equally consumed by curiosity. I desperately wanted to know how he did it. Was his skill something others could learn? Was it something I could learn? My mind was whispering, _run, run, run,_ but I ignored it, too enthralled by the display of power I’d just witnessed. 

As though a mask had been removed, all of the expression dropped from Rich's face. The warmth and gentleness were stripped from his eyes. In their place remained a burning hunger. I took a step closer, drawn by the hypnotic power of his gaze. 

"You have been sticking that long nose of yours where it shouldn't belong." he said. 

"And where would that be?" I asked. 

"You thought I wouldn't notice you dangling your pretty little medical student in front of me like bait on a hook. You had better watch out or I might bite." He bared his teeth in a vicious grin. 

He’d as good as admitted that he was behind the murder suicides. I tried to keep my face impassive, even as my heart raced. "I don't know what you could possibly mean." 

He took a step closer and pressed his index finger to my lips, silencing me. I closed my eyes against the burning pressure, barely suppressing the urge to open my mouth for him. 

"Don't play the innocent, Sherlock, neither of us are virgins here. I will only give you this one warning. Move out of that flat. Get away from London. Go visit your family's place in Paris for a while. There's no need for this to end in ugliness." 

"Or what?" 

Richard grinned. "Call Sally Donovan next week and ask me that question again." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore you guys, and hope you keep reading, but I feel like I should warn you that things are only going to get darker from here on out (until they start getting better, but it's going to get really dark first). If that is something that you are not into, this might be a good moment to jump ship.


	10. Skulls and Violins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You know me. You know I’m impossible to fool with cheap parlor tricks. Now I’m telling you that Richard Brook is a murderer. He needs to be in jail."_

Sherlock’s Journal

**14.04.97**

I've decided to tell John nothing about my encounter with Richard Brook. There is a weak part of me that can't bear to see the look on his face if I told him that I was using him as serial killer bait. I would also have to tell him about my gift. I'm reasonably certain that he is also some sort of variant of sensitive, but there's no telling whether or not he's aware of it, or even how welcoming he would be of another person with similar gifts. Sensitives tend to be a bit like cats in that way. It's impossible to know whether or not we're going to get on. I know it’s selfish and sentimental of me, but the idea of coming home to a flat without him in it leaves me feeling empty.

John’s Journal

**17 April 1997**

Sherlock hasn’t stopped playing that damned violin in the past three days. I doubt there's a jury in England who'll convict me if I stab him in the eye with his damned bow.

**18 April 1997**

Sherlock is cross with me because I hid his violin. I didn’t do it because I was tired of listening to his incessant sawings and pluckings, although I’m reasonably certain, every resident of this building will heave a sigh of relief when Sherlock moves on from Avant-garde to something less…screechy.  
I hid it because he’s given himself an oozing sore on his shoulder from playing the damned thing so much, and I’ll be the one who’ll have to patch him if it gets too bad.  
He is currently performing an experiment that involves drilling holes in a human skull. It is actually quite funny. He keeps on muttering to it like it’s a person. I love watching him. He pours so much energy into everything he does.  
He’s glaring at me over the skull. I must stop smiling, but I can’t quite seem to make myself do it. Now he’s running his fingers through his hair in frustration. The static electricity is making his curls frizz about his head like black dandelion fluff. I must stop smiling. 

Today Sherlock asked me what I write about in my journal.

I shrugged. “You. Me. Some of the things we do. Nothing classified, of course.”

He nodded and continued cutting the back of Billy’s head open.

In case you were wondering, he named the damned skull Billy. And yes he's still talking to it.  
And yes, I’m jealous of a skull.

 

**20 April 1997**

Sherlock found his violin. He informed me of this fact by letting loose a particularly shrill squeal right next to my ear as I was sleeping. I leapt out of bed, ready to throttle him, but the long-legged bugger skipped away before I could reach him.

God, he can be such an arsehole sometimes. I hope his sore gets infected.

Sherlock’s Journal

**20.04.97**

The search for Richard Brook is turning up no new leads. John is more glum than usual. I think he must have heard some bad news, and for some reason is keeping it from me. I know it is stupid, but I really hate it when he hides things from me. I know I'll figure it out on my own soon enough, but I'd rather he spare me the bother and just tell me. 

**21.04.97**

John came in today. His face pale and faint lines of worry bracketed the corners of his mouth.

"I saw Sally in hospital today."

I perked up. "Really? Why?"

"You don't want to know."

I cast my mind back through all of the details I knew about John. 

"She must have needed trauma surgery if she saw you."

He gave me a level look.

"That bad, then?"

He shrugged.

"How's Irene holding up?"

He pressed his lips together and looked away.

Blast. Richard Brook has shown his hand. He will be expecting to hear my acquiescence soon and I have no plan for how to deal with him. I’m in over my head. Far over my head. It’s time for desperate measures. It’s time to run to my big brother for help.

John’s Journal

**21 April 1997**

I saw Sally today. Her injuries were painful, but not life-threatening. Lacerations and broken bones in her wrist and hands. Irina left her alone in the flat, handcuffed to the bed with no food or water. Sally waited for a day and a half before she found the courage to smash her hand between the headboard and the wall until she could yank herself free of the cuffs.

She could have died.

Irene still hasn't come to visit her.

Sherlock’s Journal

**22.04.97**

Mycroft did not look well. I don't know how it’s possible to appear simultaneously pinched and bloated, but he's managed it.

"I've found my murderer by suicide," I said.

"Oh?" One eyebrow inched up ever so slightly.

"It's Richard Brook. An oily little toad. An actor."

"How do you think he's doing it?"

"Mind control."

Mycroft snorted. "Really, Sherlock, tell me another."

"I'm serious. I saw him do it."

"Did he do it to you?"

"No," I replied, disliking where this conversation was going.

"What happened?"

I explained the encounter in the hotel room with Irina.

Mycroft's lip curled in a mixture of sympathy and scorn. "Brother dear, he's probably having you on. He's an actor. She's an actor of sorts. They probably arranged it between themselves as a prank."

I set my teeth. Insulting him was not going to get me what I want.

“You know me. You know I’m impossible to fool with cheap parlor tricks. Now I’m telling you that Richard Brook is a murderer. He needs to be in jail."

"I can't just arrest people on your whim. I need evidence that he's a danger to the public. You're giving me nothing to go on."

"Sally, Irina's girlfriend is in the hospital. Irina put her there."

"So?"

"The last time we spoke, he threatened me. He told me to back off and that if I didn't believe his threats, to see what happened to Sally in a week."

Mycroft gave a gusty sigh. "Fine, I'll look into it, but I can't make any promises."

"That's all I ask."

**22.04.97**

I saw Irina today. She was sitting on the pavement like a vagrant, huddling underneath a scratchy blue wool blanket. Her expression was vacant. Her designer clothes were crusted with filth. She had no shoes. The soles of her feet were black with grime. I knelt in front of her, hoping to get her attention.

"Someone has been a naughtly boy." 

Her mouth formed the words, but the singsong lilt with which they were spoken could only have come from Richard.

I froze. "Where are you?" I asked.

"Someplace where that pesky brother of yours will never find me. Did you know, he's almost as nosy as you are."

"What have you done to her?"

"Nothing permanent. She’s been very good to me, unlike you. You didn't listen to my warning. I don't appreciate your siccing your big brother on me. You're old enough that you should be cleaning up your own messes."

I snorted. I couldn't help but agree with that statement.

"I've tried to avoid this. I like you, Sherlock, you know I do, but you must be taught a lesson."

My breath caught in my throat. I should have run, but I was rooted to the spot. My heart raced from equal parts terror that he would enslave my mind and fascination with how he would manage it.

"What lesson?" I asked.

"You'll find out soon enough."

Irina fluttered her fingers at me. "Tata for now."

For a second, her entire body went slack, as though it were a puppet with its strings cut, then she jerked back to consciousness, took a deep breath, and let loose an eardrum-shattering scream.


	11. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“There, there. Close your eyes, my beloved and go to sleep.”_

TW: suicide

 

John's Journal

**23, April 1997**

Last night I dreamed of Sherlock’s death. I stood in front of him, watching as he drew the razor blade up the inside of his arm, following the faint blue path of the vein with unerring accuracy. A thick trail of red welled from the tip of the blade, rushing out of his veins with the rhythm of his heart. Though his hands were steady, his heart raced, killing him all the more quickly. 

“There, there. Close your eyes, my beloved and go to sleep.” I stroked a hand through his hair. He flinched away. I stroked him again. Only now that he was close to death did he show fear. I smiled tenderly down at him as the river of blood slowed, then stopped.

I jerked awake in a cold sweat. This was worse than the usual fragmented horrors that assailed my sleeping mind. Something inside me felt corrupted, as though my soul had been marinating in filth. I got out of bed to take a shower.

I spent the rest of the night reading a book with a flashlight under the covers. Even after scrubbing myself raw under water turned up to near scalding, I didn’t feel clean. For the first time since I was an adolescent, the idea of going to sleep made my stomach tight with panic. I forced my mind and my eyes back to my book.

After what felt like a century, the glowing numbers on the alarm clock read 5:00 am. At last, I could make coffee without drawing too much suspicion. As I got out of bed, I saw the faint gleam of reflected light on the slits of Sherlock’s eyes. He was awake, but not yet willing to admit it. I put enough water in the coffee maker for four cups. 

He got up and pulled a dressing gown from the closet before making a beeline for the kitchenette.  
I busied myself with cracking an egg into a pan. He had to brush past me to get to the coffee. I suppressed a shiver when I felt his breath against my neck and the heat of his body behind me. The memory of the night in the closet filled my mind yet again and my cock hardened. I stepped closer to the stove, trying to hide the beginnings of an erection.

He poured himself a cup and slid past me again. I kept my eyes on my eggs. They were still half-raw, but I scooped them from the pan and scarfed them down, not bothering with salt and pepper. The mixture of arousal and the images from my dream were too much, so I left for hospital over an hour early.

**24, April 1997**

I was afraid to sleep last night. I got ready for bed like I usually do, but anxiety churned at the pit of my stomach. I lay down and tried to force myself to empty my mind, and managed to doze off easily enough. Just as I was slipping over the edge of waking and dreaming, I returned to the place where Sherlock died. Red blood sheeted across matchstick forearms. I jerked awake. Half in a daze, I stumbled for the shower, stripping off my clothes without concern for noise or modesty.

Eventually, the shower ran out of hot water. I turned off the tap as it made the transition from warm to cold. I looked around, barely able to remember how I’d gotten here. I shivered. I’d gotten up in such a rush that I hadn’t bothered with a towel. Fortunately, Sherlock was out cold, so it was easy enough to dig through my half of the closet and pull out a towel. I dried my hair and dressed. I was exhausted, but I didn’t dare sleep. Instead, I grabbed my wallet and stepped out of the door.

**26, April 1997**

I can barely hold my hands steady long enough. I haven’t slept in days. I can’t even close my eyes anymore without the dream coming back. The dream itself isn’t so bad. I’ve seen far worse things than a naked man slitting his wrists in a bathtub. No, it’s the slimy sense of triumph that makes me feel ill. I can’t bear it. I can’t sleep. I’d rather die. 

Sherlock's Journal

**04.26.97**

Finally! A breakthrough in the experiment. John is experiencing nightmares and sleeplessness, the exact symptoms of the previous suicides. I don’t know how or why, but I’m certain Richard Brook is the catalyst. I should be on top of the world. Months of work are finally being vindicated. Mycroft will have to take me seriously now. That is, if I can get John and me out of this alive. 

John is a problem. When I designed this experiment, I knew there was a strong probability that my bait would not survive. Back when all this was all abstract, it was easy to rationalize away any qualms with the idea that the sacrifice of one life to save many was a worthy price to pay. Now, I finally have Richard on my hook, but I've no notion of how to reel him in, and I find that I can't--I won't--let him take John away from me. 

John's Journal

**27 March 1997**

Fucking bloody wanker drugged me. Sherlock fucking arsehole Holmes drugged me. According to him, I’d been a dangerously long time without sleep and he was just trying to protect my health, which coincidentally is exactly what a self-absorbed high-handed arsehole would say. I told him to bugger off. For all that I’d slept for about twelve hours, I didn’t feel rested. All night I’d dreamed over and over again of looking down at Sherlock, of watching him open his veins. With every iteration of the dream, the corruption sank deeper into my marrow. 

When I woke, I got into the shower. I scrubbed and scrubbed until the water was ice, until faintly orange-red blotches of blood marred my washcloth. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. Everything inside me was putrid. Washing wouldn’t be sufficient. I needed to cut the poison out. I opened the medicine cabinet searching for a knife, a razor, anything I could use to excise this vile thing from my body.

Sherlock rapped on the door. “What are you still doing in there? You can’t be wanking. You ran out of hot water ages ago.”

The sound of his knuckles against the door jolted me from my trance. “Sorry!” I called.

I stashed the stained washcloth in the wastebasket and quickly wrapped myself in a towel. I needn’t have bothered with the subterfuge. Sherlock yanked the towel from around me as soon as I stepped out the door.

Instinctively, my hands twitched to cover the oozing red scrapes on my shoulders and arms. Sherlock's brow furrowed and his lips turned down in thought.

“You need help.”

I was too surprised to even feel properly angry. “What? No, I’m fine, it’s just a few nightmares.”

“Nightmares shouldn't make you wash yourself until you bleed. You just had a half day of sleep. You should look more rested, but instead you just look even more tired. I’m calling my brother.”

His brother who worked for the government. Hell, no. The last thing I wanted were government bureaucrats poking into my life. “No, absolutely not."


	12. Spiderweb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I have to see someone, but I promise I'll be back soon. Just, please, don't hate me too much."_
> 
> _"I could never hate you." I replied._

John’s Journal

**27 April 1997**

“John, this is not something to play around with. Whether you’ll admit it or not, those dreams are killing you," Sherlock said.

"They're not." 

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Just trust that I do. I’m going for a walk. I feel better when I'm moving,” I replied.

Sherlock went to the door and pulled on his scarf.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m going with you. You shouldn’t be alone in your state.”

My heart lifted a bit at the thought of Sherlock’s concern, even as my gut simmered with resentment at his sudden mother hen act.

I walked for hours with Sherlock a silent supportive presence at my side. Perhaps it was just the distraction of my attraction to him, but for a time, I was able to feel something other than the vile sense of corruption that was slowly spreading through my body like an infection. 

The walking helped keep me from scratching myself open, from taking a knife to my skin to cut away the horrid thing that lived inside me. The forward movement made me feel like perhaps I could leave this thing behind. If I could just move fast enough. I picked up the pace to a slow jog. Sherlock’s breath grew heavy. For all his long legs, he smoked a lot more often than I did. I doubted he would be able to keep up for long. I sped up, moving at half speed. It helped. I could feel it helping. I ran faster. I was at full speed now, my heart beat wildly. My breath now came in great ragged gasps. If I could just keep running. I was so close.

Something hard and heavy barreled into me from behind, sending me crashing into the pavement. I skidded against the hard ground, collecting scrapes on my cheekbone, forehead, and palms. Sherlock sat on top of me, breathing hard. His face was white with fear.

I tried to get up, but he wouldn’t budge. I raised my head, trying to get my bearings and found that I was only inches away from the edge of the pavement and a busy street. Shit. I’d almost run into traffic and not even realized it.

Slowly, he eased off me, studying my face closely, most likely afraid that I would try to dart into the road if he wasn’t careful. Eventually, he got up and offered me a gloved hand. I took it, rising to my feet. I could feel the tremor that ran down his body. Without thinking, I squeezed his hand before remembering Sherlock’s aversion to affection and releasing it. Without saying a word, he recaptured it and gently tugged me in the direction of home. We walked that way, hand in hand all the way back to the flat. I’m sure he just did it to make it easier to grab me if I tried to run again, but I still couldn’t suppress the tiny thrill that ran through my veins at the feeling of the leather of his glove against my palm.

When we got back to the apartment, he was all business. "I'm calling Mycroft."

I didn't argue. My scrapes stung and my body ached with bruises. I knew I should go into the bathroom and clean them out, but I didn't have the energy. Instead, I planted myself on my bed and stared at the wall.

Sherlock dialed the landline. The sound of Mycroft's answering machine filled the silence.

"Shit," Sherlock said.

I didn't care. I was too tired to care anymore about anything.

"I need you to not move. Just stay still until I get back."

I stared at him impassively, already making plans to cut out the thing inside me. If Sherlock would just leave me alone, I could get out my scalpel and find the source of my infection in peace.

He scooped me up from the bed, his wiry arms as hard as iron railings against my exhausted muscles. He deposited me on his bed before stripping my own of sheets and blankets.

"I don't want to do this, John, but it's for your own protection."

He dug through one of his drawers and pulled out a small bundle of scarves. Before I quite knew what was happening he had me back on my bed and was tying one of my wrists to the bedposts. I struggled, but I was too weak from exhaustion to overpower him.

"I have to see someone, but I promise I'll be back soon. Just, please, don't hate me too much."

"I could never hate you." I replied.

He ducked down, and leaned in close. The scent of cool rain and wet wool filled the air as he pressed his lips hard against my forehead. I arched my neck, offering myself to him, trying to capture his mouth with mine. For a second, his mouth softened against my skin, a sweet surrender, and then he was gone.

"Please," I breathed into the fetid air of the flat.

"I can't," he replied in a broken whisper..

He looked back one last time before he walked out the door. 

"I'll be back soon," he said, "just please wait for me."

**Later**

I wasted what was probably a silly amount of time testing the strength of my bonds. Sherlock was thorough in everything he did. Of course he was thorough in this as well.

After a time, I drifted into a state that was somewhere between waking and sleep, too exhausted to cling to full consciousness, but too afraid to let my mind go.

Slowly, I became aware of a loud banging at the door.

“Sherlock, I know you’re in there,” a familiar voice shouted.

I jolted to full alertness. Sally. What was she doing here?

“Will you force me to state my business to everyone in the hallway or will you let me in?”

“He’s not here,” I rasped. I cleared my throat and tried again, “He’s not here. He should be back in a few hours.”

“John?” befuddlement filled the voice on the other side of the door, “John, are you alright? You sound odd.”

“I’m fine, just please come back later.”

There was a long hesitation. 

“I’m sorry, but you don’t sound alright. I’m coming in.”

I heard the sound of plastic sliding against metal and had a moment to regret the apartment’s lack of a deadbolt. The door swung open.

“Oh my God. John, are you okay? Where’s Sherlock?”

“He’ll be back soon,” I said.

Embarrassment sent blood rushing to my face, though I wasn’t sure why. I’d seen Irina and Sally engage in activities that were a lot kinkier than a little bondage.

“It doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t leave you completely alone like this. What if the flat caught on fire? What if something happened to him?”

I didn’t have a response for that.

“It’s not what it looks like we weren’t—“

She began untying the scarves that held my wrists.

“John, I’m saying this because I don’t want you to get hurt. Sherlock is a dangerous man. I don’t know if you know this, but Irina has disappeared. I can’t find her anywhere. I went through her calendar and Sherlock was the last appointment she had before she—before she—“

“What happened?”

“She wanted to switch roles for a night. Usually, I’m the one in control, but that night, she wanted to tie me up, to have me at her mercy for a change. I went along with it. I was curious to see the side of herself she shows her clients. It was good, very good for a while, but then she just left. She didn’t warn me or say when she would return. It was the last I saw of her. I’ve rung Scotland Yard. They say they’re keeping an eye out, but they’re not going to make any real effort to find a sex worker with no family and few friends.”

“I’m sorry about Irina.”

Hands now free, I sat up and untied my ankles. My scalpel was calling to me.

“Rich called me and told me he spotted her a week ago. Said she was sitting on the sidewalk like a panhandler. Said they saw Sherlock Holmes talking to her. By the time I got there, she was gone. I don’t know who Sherlock is or what he’s done, but he’s done something terrible to Irina and I plan to find out what it is.”

The song of my scalpel drowned out whatever else she was saying. My legs free, I got up from the bed and tottered over to my medical satchel. Sally was saying something about the scrapes on my face and Sherlock, but I didn’t care.

I plucked the blade from the pocket where I knew it would be and held it up to the light, admiring the way it danced along the stainless steel.

“John, what are you doing?” alarm made her louder.

I smiled beatifically. I was floating, my head was a million miles above my body. Everything was so far away, and yet so close at the same time. Go up under the ribs. There was no way I could get through the sternum without bonecutters. I found the spot where hard ribs met soft abdomen and set the tip of my scalpel there.

Rough hands knocked the scalpel free from my fingers. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m cutting it out. I’m cutting out the infection.”

“He’s drugged you, hasn’t he?”

“No. I mean, probably not.”

“Come on, we’re going to hospital.”

“What? Why? I’m fine?”

“You’re the opposite of fine. I just saw you try to cut open your stomach. You need medical attention.”

“No, I don’t.”

I tried to fight her. Sherlock had told me to wait here, that he would be back soon, but my mind and my muscles were jelly, and Sally was yelling and then she had me by the elbow and was leading me away. I stopped in the threshold of the flat.

“No, I’m not leaving. Sherlock will be back soon.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know. I know. He’ll be back.”

“Do you want him to be back? He’s the one who made you this way. He’s drugged you or tortured you or something. You need help, real help, and you’re not going to get it from him.”

“No.” I replied.

“Fine.” She said.

I drifted away for a time. When I came back, Lestrade was there, flanked by a pair of husky paramedics.

“Come along, John,” He said in an authoritative voice.

“No.”

One of them approached with a hypodermic needle.

“No!” I cried, as I felt a sharp pinch in my upper arm before the room went black.

**Author's Note:**

> So, word of warning, later on, this fic will skate close to some dark themes. I will put trigger warnings both in the tags and on top of the chapters, but if you are easily triggered or you are in a vulnerable place, you may want to give this fic a pass.
> 
> Sorry, dear readers for dropping off the map these last few months. Work kind of subsumed everything for a while and once I had time to come up for air, I found that I had lost the writing habit. I'm going to keep these next few chapters short while my writing training wheels are still on. I want to say thank you to Mafm, whose feedback on early drafts of this helped make it a million times better and the fab folks in AD chat who answer my inane questions and help keep me on task. 
> 
> I welcome all feedback, flailing, comments, emoticons, kudos, kitten gifs, and chocolate. You can also find me on the following websites: [tumblr](http://cottonballzofdeath.tumblr.com/) and [lj.](http://cbzofdeath.livejournal.com/)
> 
> Hearts,
> 
> Cottonballz


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